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U2SOa2aEa,^a@'i5S W®!B2]2S 




R GOLDSMITH, 



Ettottnt of ftfe ILffe atOJ SWrttiwas. 



STEREOTYPED PROM THE PARIS EDITION, 



EDITED BT 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



COMPLETE IN ONE TOL.UME 



PUBLISHED BY J. CKISSY. 



1834. 

*-0 



■'It 

1 « 3-+ 



i"/y 



CONTENTS, 



Page 
Memoirs of the life and writings of Dr. Gold- 
smith 7 

The Vicar of Wakefield, .... 57 
An Inquiry into the Present State of Polite 
Learning, 122 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Prologue by Laberius, . . . . . 143 
The Double Transformation, . . . ib. 
New Simile, in the manner of Swift, . . 144 
Description of an Author's Bedchamber, . 145 
The Hermit ; a Ballad, .... ib. 
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, . 147 

Stanzas on Woman, ib. 

The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society, ib. 

The Deserted Village, . . ." . 152 

The Gift, 157 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell, .... ib. 
Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters, . ib. 
Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss 

Catley, ib. 

Epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley, . 158 
The Haunch of Venison, . . . . 159 
Song from the Oratorio of the Captivity, . 160 

Song, , . ib. 

The Clown's Reply, .... ib. 

Epitaph on Edward Purdon, . . . IGl 
An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, . . ib. 
Retaliation, . . . . . . ib. 

Postscript to ditto, 163 

Song 164 

Prologue to Zobeide, . . . . ib. 
Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lewes, . . . ib. 
The Logicians Refuted, .... 165 
Stanzas on the Taking of GLuebec, . . ib. 
On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Light- 
ning, ib. 

A Sonnet, . ib. 

DRAMATIC. 

The Good-natured Man. A Comedy, . 166 
She Stoops to Conquer, or, the Mistakes of a 

Night. A Comedy, . . . .193 
An Oratorio ; first printed in the Paris edi- 
tion, in 1825, from the original in Dr. 
Goldsmith's own handwriting, . . 221 

PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 
The Preface to Dr. Brookes's Natural His- 
tory, 226 

Introduction to a New History of the World, 228 



Page 
The Preface to the Roman Histor3', 230 

The Preface to a History of England, . . 231 
The Preface to the History of the Earth, etc. 232 
The Preface to the Beauties of English -Poetry, 233 
The Preface to a Collection of Poems, etc. 238 



Criticism on Massey's Translation of the 

Fasti of Ovid, 239 

Criticism on Barrett's Translation of Ovid's 

Epistles 242 

LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE 
WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE 
EAST. 

Letter r-,-' 

I. Introduction. A character of the Chi- 
nese Philosopher, . . .248 
II. The arrival of the Chinese in Lon- 
don. His motives for the journey. 
Some description of the streets and 
houses, ib. 

III. The description of London continu- 

ed. The luxury of the English. 
Its benefits. The fine geuilenian. 
The fine lady, . . . .249 

IV. English pride. Liberty. An instance 

of both. Newspapers. Politeness, 251 
V. English passion for politics. A spe- 
cimen of a newspaper. Character- 
istic of the manners of different 
countries, .... 252 

VI. Happiness lost by seeking after re- 
finement. The Chinese philoso- 
pher's disgraces, .... 253 
VII. The tie of wisdom only to make us 
happy. The benefits of travelling 
upon the morals of a philosopher, 254 
VIII. The Chinese deceived by a prostitute 

in the streets of London, . . 255 
IX. The licentiousness of the English 
with regard to women. A charac- 
ter of a woman's man, . . 256 
X. The journey of the Chinese from Pe- 
kin to Moscow. The customs of 
the Daures, .... 257 
XI. The benefits of luxury in making a 

people more wise and happy, . 258 

XII. The funeral solemnities of the En- 
glish. Their passion for flattering 

epitaphs, 259 

XIII. An account of Westminster Abbey, 260 



CONTENTS. 



Letter Page 

XIV. The reception of the Chinese 

from a Lady of distinction, . 262 
XV. Against cruelty to animals. A 
story from the Zendevesta of 
Zoroastor, .... 263 
XVI. Of falsehood propagated by books 

seemingly sincere, . . 264 

XVII. Of the war now carried on be- 
tween France and England, 
with its frivolous motives, . 265 
XVIII. The story of the Chinese ma- 
tron, .... 266 
XIX. The Enghsh method of treating 
women caught in adultery. 
The Russian method, . . 267 
XX. Some account of the repubUc of 

letters in England, . . 269 

XXI. The Chinese goes to see a play, 270 
XXII. The Chinese philosopher's son 

made a slave in Persia, . 272 

XXIII. The English subscription in fa- 

vour of the French prisoners 
commended, .... 273 

XXIV. The venders of quack medicines 

and nostrums ridiculed, . 274 

XXV. The natural rise and decline of 
kingdoms, exemplified in the 
history of the kingdom of Lao, 275 

XXVI. The character of the man in 
black, with some instances of 
his inconsistent conduct, . 276 

XXVII. The history ofthe man in black, 278 
XXVIII. On the great numbers of old 

maids and bachelors in Lon- ( 
don. Some of the causes, . 280 

XXIX. A description of a club of au- 
thors, 281 

XXX. The proceedings of the club of 

authors, . . . .282 

XXXI. The perfection of the Chinese 
in the art of gardening. The 
description ofa Chinese garden 384 
XXXII. Ofthe degeneracy of some ofthe 
English nobility. A mush- 
room feast among the Tartars, 285 

XXXIII. The manner of writing among 

the Chinese. The eastern tales 

of magazines, etc. ridiculed, . 287 

XXXIV. Ofthe present ridiculous passion 

of the nobility for painting, . 288 
XXXV. The philosopher's son describes 

a lady, his fellow-captive, . 290 

XXXVI. A continuance of his correspond- 
ence. The beautiful captive 
consents to marry her lord, . 291 

XXXVII. The correspondence still con- 
tinued. He begins to be dis- 
gusted in the pursuit of wis- 



Letter 



XXXVIII. 



XXXIX. 



XL. 



XLI. 



XLII. 



XLIII. 



XLIV. 



XLV. 



XLVI. 
XLVII. 

XLVIII. 



XLIX. 
L. 



LI. 



LII. 



LIII. 



LIV. 



LV. 



LVI. 



LVII. 



LVIII. 
LIX. 



dom. An allegory to prove its 
futility, . . . .292 

The Chinese philosopher praises 
the justice of a late sentence, 
and instances the injustice of 
the King of France, in the case 
of the Prince of Charolais, 

The description of true polite- 
ness. Two letters of different 
countries, by ladies falsely 
thought polite at home. 

The English still have poets, 
though not versifiers, 

The behaviour of the congrega- 
tion in St. Paul's church at 
prayers, ... 

The history of China more re- 
plete with great actions than 
that of Europe, 

An apostrophe on the supposed 
death of Voltaire, . 

Wisdom and precept may lessen 
our miseries, but can never in- 
crease ourpositive satisfactions 301 

The ardour ofthe people of Lon- 
don in running after sights and 
monsters, 

A dream, .... 

Misery best relieved by dissipa- 
tion, 

The absurdity of persons in high 
station pursuing employments 
beneath them, exemplified in 
a fairy talc, . . 

The fairy tale continued, 

An attempt to define what is 
meant by English liberty, 

A bookseller's visit to the Chi- 
nese, 

The impossibility of distinguish- 
ing men in England by their 
dress. Two instances of this, 

The absurd taste for obscene and 
pert novels, such as Tristram 
Shandy, ridiculed. 

The character of an important 
trifler, 

His character continued ; with 
that of his wife, his house, and 
furniture, .... 

Some thoughts on the present 
situation of affairs in the differ- 
ent countries of Europe, . 

The diflSculty of rising in htera- 
ry reputation without intrigue 
or riches, .... 

A visitation dinner described, 

The Chinese philosopher's son 



293 



295 
296 



297 



298 



299 



302 
304 

305 



306 
308 

309 

310 



312 



313 



314 



315 



317 



318 
319 



CONTENTS. 



Letter 

LX. 
LXI. 

LXII. 

LXIII. 

LXIV. 

LXV. 

LXVI. 

LXVIl. 

LXVIII. 

LXIX. 
LXX. 

LXXL 



LXXII. 

LXXIII. 
LXXIV. 

LXXV. 



LXXVI. 
LXXVII. 
LXXVIII. 

LXXIX. 
LXXX. 



LXXXI. 

LXXXII. 



LXXXIII. 
LXXXIV. 



escapes with the beautiful cap 
tive from slavery, . 

The history of the beautiful cap- 
tive, 

Proper lessons to a j'outh enter- 
ing the world, with fables suit- 
ed to the occasion, . 

An authentic history of Cathe- 
rina Alexowna, wife of Peter 
the Great, .... 

The rise or the decline of litera- 
ture not dependent on man, but 
resulting from the vicissitudes 
of nature, .... 

The great exchange happiness 
for show. Their folly in this 
respect of use to society. 

The history of a philosophic cob- 
bler, 

The difference between love and 
gratitude, .... 

The folly of attempting to learn 
wisdom by being recluse, 

GLuacks ridiculed. Some particu- 
larly mentioned. 

The fear of mad-dogs ridiculed. 

Fortune proved not to be blind. 

The story of the avaricious miller 335 

The shabby beau, the man in 
black, the Chinese philosopher, 
etc. at Vauxhall, 

The marriage-act censured. 

Life endeared by age. 

The description of a little great 
man, . . . 

The necessity of amusing each 
other with new books insisted 



320 



321 



323 



324 



326 



327 

328 

329 

231 

232 
333 



336 
338 
339 

340 



342 



upon, . . . 

The preference of grace to beau- 
ty ; an allegory. 

The behaviour of a shopkeeper 
and his journeyman. 

The French ridiculed after their 
own manner, .... 

The preparations of both thea- 
tres for a winter campaign, 

The evil tendencyof increasing 
penal laws, or enforcing even 
those already in being with 
rigour, 

The ladies' trains ridiculed. 

The sciences useful inapopiilous 
state, prejudicial in a barbarous 
one, 

Some cautions on life taken from 
a modern philosopher of China, 351 

Anecdotes of several poets who 
lived and died in circum- 
stances of wretchedness, . 352 



343 



344 



345 



346 



49 



Letter Page 

LXXXV. The trifling squabbles of stage 

players ridiculed, . , 353 
LXXXVI. The races of Newmarket ridi- 
culed. The description of a 
cart-race, .... 355 
LXXXVII. The folly of the western parts 
of Europe in employing the 
Russians to fight their battles, 356 
LXXXVIII. The ladies advised to get hus- 
bands. A story to this pur- 
pose, ib. 

LXXXIX. The folly of remote or use- 
less disquisitions among the 
learned, .... 358 
XC. The English subject to the 

spleen, .... 359 
XCI. The influence of climate and 
soil upon the temper and dis- 
positions of the English, . 36i 
XCII. The manner in which some 
philosophers make artificial 
misery, .... 363 
XCIII. The fondness of some to ad- 
mire the writings of lords, etc. 363 
XCIV. The philosopher's son is again 
separated from his beautiful 
companion, . . . ib. 

XCV, The father consoles him upon 

this occasion, . . . 364 
XC VI. The condolence and congratu- 
lation upon the death of the 
late king ridiculed. English 
mourning described, . . 365 
XCVII. Almost every subject of litera- 
ture has been already ex- 
hausted, . , . . . 366 
XCVIII. A description of the courts of 

justice in Westminster Hall 367 
XCIX. A visit from the Httle beau. 
The indulgence with which 
the fair sex are treated in 
several parts of Asia, . . 368 
C. A life of independence praised, 369 
CI. That people must be conter>ted 
to be guided by those whom 
they have appointed to gov- 
ern. A story to this effect, 370 
CII. The passion for gaming among 

ladies ridiculed, . . . 371 
cm. The Chinese philosopher be- 
gins to think of quitting En- 
gland, . . . .372 
CIV. The arts some make use of to 

appear learned, . . . 373 
CV. The intended coronation de- 
scribed, . . . .374 
CVI. Funeral elegies written upon 
the great ridiculed. A speci- 
men of one, . . . 375 



CONTENTS. 



Letter Page 

CVII. The English too fond of believing 
every report without examination. 
A story of an incendiary to this 

purpose, 376 

CVIIl. The utiUty and entertainment 
■which might result from a jour- 
ney into the East, . . . 377 
CIX. The Chinese philosopher attempts 

to find out famous men, . . 378 
ex. Some projects for introducing Asi- 
atic employments into the courts 
of England, . . . .380 
CXI. On the diiferent sects in England, 

particularly Methodism, . . 381 
CXII. An election described, . . 382 
CXIII. A literary contest of great import- 
ance; in which both sides fight by 

epigram, 383 

CXIV. Against the marriage act. A fable, 385 
CXV. On the danger of having too high 

an opinion of human nature, . 386 
CXVI. Whether love be a natural or ficti- 
tious passion, .... 387 
CXVII. A city night-piece, . . .389 
CXVIII. On the meanness of the Dutch at 

the court of Japan, . . . ib. 
CXIX. On the distresses of the poor exem- 
plified in the life of a private sen- 
tinel, 390 

CXX. On the absurdity of some late En- 
glish titles, . . . .392 
CXXI. The irresolution of the English ac- 
counted for, .... 393 
CXXII. The manner of travellers in their 

usual relations ridiculed, . . 394 
CXXIII. The conclusion, . . .395 

The Life of Dr. Parnell 398 

The Life of Henry Lord Viscount Bolingbroke 407 

THE BEE. 

No. I. Introduction, 424 

On a beautiful youth struck blind by 

lightning, 426 

Remarks on our Theatres, . . ib. 

The Story of Alcander and Septimius, 427 

A letter from a Traveller, . . 429 

Account of Mr. Maupertuis, . ib. 

II. On Dress, 430 

Some particulars relative to Charles 12, 432 

Happiness dependent on Constitution, 434 

On our Theatres, .... 435 

III. On the Use of Language, . . 436 

The History of Hyspasia, . . 438 

On Justice and Generosit}', . . 439 
Some particulars relative to Father 

Freijo, 440 

iV. Miscellaneous, . . . .441 
A Flemish Tradition, . . .442 

The Sagacity of some Insects, . 444 



Page 

The Characteristics of Greatness, . 445 

Conclusion of a City Night-Piece, 446 

V. Upon Political Frugality, . . .447 

A Reverie, 450 

A word or two upon High Life Below 

Stairs, 452 

Upon unfortunate Merit, . . . 453 
VI. On Education, .... 454 
On the instability of worldly grandeur, 458 
Account of the Academies of Italy, 459 
VII. Of Eloquence, .... 460 
Custom and Laws compared, . . 463 
On the Pride and Luxury of the Mid- 
dling class of People, . . 464 
Sabinus and Olinda, . . , ib. 
The Sentiments of a Frenchman on the 

Temper of the English, . . 466 
VIII. On Deceit and Falsehood . . 467 
An Account of the Augustan Age of 

England, 469 

Of the Opera in England, . . ' 471 

ESSAYS. 
Pi-eface to the Essays, . . 473 
I. Description of various Clubs, . 474 
II. Specimen of a Magazine in Minia- 
ture, 477 

III. Asem, an eastern Tale; or. Vindica- 

tion of the Wisdom of Providence 
in the Moral Government of the 
World, 478 

IV. On the English Clergy and popular 

Preachers, .... 480 

V. A Reverie at the Boar's-Head Tav- 
ern, Eastcheap, .... 482 
VI. Adventures of a Strolling Player, 487 
VII. Rules enjoined to be observed at a 

Russian Assembly, . . 490 
VIII. Biographical Memoir supposed to be 
written by the Ordinary of New- 
gate, 491 

IX. National Concord, . . . 492 

X. Female Warriors, . . . 493 

XI. National Prejudices, . . . 494 

XII. Taste, 496 

XIII. Cultivation of Taste, ... -199 

XIV. Origin of Poetry, . . . .502 
XV. Poetry distinguished from other 

Writing, 506 

XVI. Metaphors, .... 510 

XVII. Hyperboles 516 

XVIII. Versification, .... 617 
XIX. Schools of Music, Objections there- 
to, and Answers, . . . 519 
XX. Carolan the Irish Bard, . . 521 
XXI. On the Tenants of Leasowes, . 522 
XXII. Sentimental Comedy, . . .523 

XXIII. Scotch Marriages, . . . .525 

XXIV. Dignity of Human Nature, . 526 



op THE 

LIFE AINTD WRITINGS 

OF 



There are few writers for whom the reader feels 
such personal kindness as for OUver Goldsmith. 
The fascinating ease and simplicity of his style ; 
the benevolence that beams through every page ; 
the whimsical yet amiable views of human hfe and 
human nature; the mellow imforced humour, 
blended so happily with good feeling and good 
sense, throughout his writings; win their way ir- 
resistibly to the affections and carry the author with 
them. While writers of greater pretensions and 
more sounding names are suffered to he upon our 
shelves, the works of Goldsmith are cherished and 
laid in our bosoms. We do not quote them with 
ostentation, but they mingle with our minds ; they 
sweeten our tempers and harmonize our thoughts ; 
they put us in good humour with ourselves and 
with the world, and in so doing they malce us hap- 
pier and better men. 

We have been curious therefore in gathering to- 
gether all the heterogeneous particulars concerning 
poor Goldsmith that stUl exist; and seldom have we 
met with an author's life more illustrative of his 
works, or works more faithfully illustrative of the 
author's life.* His rambling biography displays 
him the same kind, artless, good hmnoured, excur- 
sive, sensible, whimsical, intelhgent being that he 
appears in his writings. Scarcely an adventure or 
a character is given in his page that may not be 
traced to his own parti-coloured story. Many of 
his most ludicrous scenes and ridiculous incidents 
have been drawn from his own blunders and mis- 
chances, and he seems really to have been buffeted 
into almost every maxim unparted by liim for the 
instruction of liis readers. 

OUver Goldsmith was a native of Ireland, and 
was born on the 29th of November, 1728. Two 



•The present biography is principally taken from the Scotch 
edition of Goldsmith's works, published in 1821. 



villages claim the honour of having giving him 
birth: Pallas in the county of Longford ; and EI- 
phin, in the county of Roscommon. The former 
is named as the place in the epitaph by Dr. John- 
son, inscribed on his monument in Westminster 
Abbey; but later investigations have decided in fa- 
vour of Elphin. 

He was the second son of the Rev. Charles 
Goldsmith, a clergyman of the estabhshed church, 
but vsdthout any patrimony. His mother was 
daughter of the Rev. Ohver Jones, master of the 
diocesan school at Elphin. It was not till some 
time after the birth of Oliver that his father ob- 
tained the living of Killcenny-West, in the county 
of Westmeath. Previous to this period he and his 
wife appear to have been almost entirely dependent 
on her relations for support. 

His father was equally distinguished for his lite- 
rary attainments and for the benevolence of his 
heart. His family consisted of five sons and two 
daughters. From this Httle world of home Gold- 
smith has drawn many of his domestic scenes, 
both whimsical and touching, which appeal so for- 
cibly to the heart, as well as to the fancy; his fa- 
ther's fireside furnished many of the family scenes 
of the Vicar of Wakefield; and it is said that the 
learned simphcity and amiable pecuharities of that 
worthy divine have been happily illustrated in the 
character of Dr. Primrose. 

The Rev. Henry Goldsmith, elder brother of 
the poet, and born seven years before liim, was a 
man of estimable worth and excellent talents. 
Great expectations were formed of him, from the 
promise of his youth, both when at school and at 
college ; but he offended and disappointed his 
friends, by entering into matrimony at the early 
age of nineteen, and resigning all ambitious views 
for love and a curacy. If, however, we may be- 
lieve the pictures drawn by the poet of his brother's 



8 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



domestic life, his lot, though humble, was a happy 
one. He is the village pastor of the " Deserted 
Village," so exemplary in his character, and "pass- 
ing rich with forty pounds a year." It is to this 
brother, who was the guide and protector of Gold- 
smith during his childhood, and to whom he was 
tenderly attached, that he addresses those beautiful 
lines in his poem of the Traveller: 

Where'er I roam, whatever reahiis to see, 

My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 

Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, 

And drags at each remove a length'ning chain. 

His family also form the ruddy and joyous 
group, and exercise the simple but generous rites 
of hospitality, which the poet so charmingly de- 
scribes : 

Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranlis that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

The whimsical character of the Man in Black, 
in the "Citizen of the Worid," so rich in eccen- 
tricities and in amiable failings, is said to have 
been hkewise drawn partly from his brother, part- 
ly from his father, but in a great measure from the 
author himself. It is difficult, however, to assign 
with precision the originals of a writer's characters. 
They are generally composed of scattered, though 
accordant traits, observed in various individuals, 
which have been seized upon with the discriminat- 
ing tact of genius and combined into one harmoni- 
ous whole. Still, it is a fact, as evident as it is de- 
lightful, that Goldsmith has poured out the genu- 
ine feeUngs of his heart in his works; and has had 
continually before him, in his delineations of simple 
worth and domestic virtue, the objects of his filial 
and fraternal affection. 

Goldsmith is said, in his earher j^ears, to have 
been whimsical in his humours and eccentric in his 
habits. This was remarked in his infancy. Some- 
times he assumed the gravity and reser\'e of riper 
years, at other times would give free scope to the 
wild frolic and exuberant vivacity suited to his age. 
The singularity of his moods and manners, and 
the evidences he gave of a precocity of talent, caus- 
ed him to be talked of in the neighbourhood as a 
little prodigy. It is said that, even before he was 
eight years old he evinced a natural turn for poet- 
ry, and made many attempts at rhymes, to the 
amusement of his father and friends; and when 
somewhat older, after he had learned to v/rite, his 
chief pleasure was to scribble rude verses on small 
scraps of paper, and then commit them to the 
flames. 

His father had strained his slender means in 
giving a liberal education to his eldest son, arid had 
determined to bring up Ohver to trade. He was 



placed vmder the care of a village school-master, to 
be instructed in reading, virriting, and arithmetic. 
This pedagogue, whom his scholar afterwards so 
happily describes in the " Deserted Village," had 
been a quarter-master in the army during the wars 
of GLueen Anne, and, in his ovsm estimation, a man 
of no small pith and moment. Having passed 
through various parts of Europe, and being of an 
eccentric turn of mind, he acquired habits of ro- 
mancing that bordered on the marvellous, and, Uke 
many other travellers, was possessed with a prodi- 
gious itch for detailing his adventures. He him- 
self was most commonly the redoubted hero of his 
own story, and his pupils were always the amazed 
and willing auditory : 

And stiU they gazed, and stiU the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 

The tales of wonder recounted by this second 
Pinto are said to have had surprising effects on his 
youthful hearers; and it has been plausibly con- 
jectured that to the vivid impressions thus made on 
the young imagination of our author, may be as- 
cribed those wandering propensities which mflu- 
enced his after life. 

After he had been for some time with this in- 
difierent preceptor, his mother, with whom he was 
always a favourite, exerted her influence to per- . 
suade his father to give him an education that woidd 
qualify him for a hberal profession. Her sohcita- 
tions, together with the passionate attachmentwhich 
the boy evinced for books and learning, and his 
early indications of talent, prevailed over all scru- 
ples of economy, and he was placed under the care 
of the Rev. Mr. GrifSn, schoolmaster of Elphin. 
He was boarded in the house of his uncle, John 
Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyoughter, in the vicinity^ 
Here the amiableness of his disposition and the 
amusing eccentricity of his hmnour rendered him a 
universal favourite. A httle anecdote, preserved 
by the family of his uncle evinces the precocity of 
his wit. 

At an entertainment given by this gentleman to 
a party of young people in the neighbourhood, a 
fiddler was sent for, and dancing introduced. Oli- 
ver, although only nine years of age, was permitted 
to share in the festivities of the evening, and was 
called on to dance a hornpipe. His figure was 
never good, but at this tune it was pecuUariy short 
and clumsy, and having but recently recovered from 
the small-pox, his features were greatly disfigured. 
The scraper of catgut, struck with the oddity of the 
boy's appearance, "thought to display his waggery, 
by likening hun to .^sop dancing. This compari- 
son, according to his notions, being rmcommonly 
happy, he continued to harp on it for a considerable 
time, when suddenly the laugh of the company was 
turned against himself, by Oliver sarcastically re- 
marking, 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



9 



Our herald hath proclaim'd this saying, 
See jEsop dancing, and his montey playing. 

So smart a repartee, from so young a boy, was 
the subject of much conversation, and perhaps of 
itself was decisive of his fortune. His friends im- 
mediately determined that he should be sent to the 
university ; and some of his relations, who belonged 
to the church, and possessed the necessary means, 
generously offered to contribute towards the ex- 
pense. The Rev. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr. 
Contarine, both men of distinguished worth and 
learning, stood forward on tliis occasion as the 
youth's patrons. 

To qualify him for the university, he was now 
sent to Athlone school, and placed under the tui- 
tion of the Rev. Mr. Campbell. There he re- 
mained two years ; but the ill health of the master 
having obhged him to resign his situation, Oliver 
was consigned to the care of the Rev. Patricl 
Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, in the county of 
Longford, under whom he continued his studies till 
finally fitted for the university. Under thi; 
spectable teacher and excellent man, he is said to 
have made much greater progress than under any 
of the rest of his instructors. 

A short time before leaving the school of Mr. 
Hughes, our poet had an adventure which is be- 
h'eved to have suggested the plot of liis comedy of 
"She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a 
JSTight." 

His father's house was distant about twenty 
miles from Edgeworthstown, and when on his jour- 
ney thither for the last tune, he had devoted so 
much time to amusement on the road, that it was 
almost dark when he reached the httle town of Ar- 
dagh. Some friend had given him a guinea, and 
Oliver, who was never niggard of his purse, re- 
solved to put up here for the night, and treat him- 
self to a good supper and a bed. Havmg asked 
for the best house in the village, he was conducted 
to the best house, instead of the best inn. The 
owner, immediately discovered the mistake, but be- 
ing a man of humour, resolved to carry on the joke. 
Oliver was therefore permitted to order his horse' 
to the stable, while he liimself waUied into the par- 
lour, and took his seat famiharly by the fire-side. 
The servants were then called about him to receive 
his orders as to supper. The supper was soon 
produced; the gentleman, with his Tsole and daugh- 
ters, were generously invited to partake; a bottle 
of wine was called for to crown the feast, and at 
going to bed, a hot cake was ordered to be prepared 
for liis breakfast. The laugh, to be sure, was ra- 
ther against our hero in the morning, when he 
called for his bill, and found he had been hospitably 
entertained in a private family. But findino- that 
his host was an acquaintance of his fatlier's, he en- 
tered into the humour of the scene, and laughed as 
heartily as the rest. 



On the nth of June, 1744, Goldsmith, then fif- 
teen years of age, was admitted a sizer in Trinity 
College, Dublin, under the Rev. Theaker "Wilder, 
one of the fellows, a man of violent temper, from 
whose overbearing disposition he suffered much 
vexation. The young student was giddy and 
thoughtless, and on one occasion invited a number 
of young persons of both sexes to a supper and 
dance in liis apartments, in direct violation of the 
college rules. The vigilant Wilder became ap- 
prised of the circmnstance, and rushed hke a tiger 
to the festive scene. He burst into the apartment, 
put the gay assembly to the rout, but previous to 
their dispersion, seized on the unfortunate delin- 
quent, and inffict'ed corporal chastisement on him, 
ill presence of the party. 

The youthful poet could not brook this outrage 
and indignity. He could not look his acquaintances 
in the face without the deepest feeling of shame and 
mortification. He detennined, therefore, to escape 
altogether from his terrible tutor, by abandoning his 
studies, and flying to some distant part of the globe. 
With this view he disposed of his books and clothes, 
and resolved to embark at Cork: but here his usual 
thoughtless and improvident turn was again dis- 
played, for he fingered so long in Dublin after his 
resolution had been taken, that his finances were 
reduced to a single shilhng v/hen he set out on the 
journey. 

He was accustomed afterwards to give a ludi- 
crous account of his adventures in tliis expedition, 
although it was attended by many distressful cir- 
cumstances. Having contrived to subsist three 
whole days on the shilling he set out with, he was 
then compelled by necessity to sell the clothes off 
his back, and at last was so reduced by famine, that 
he was only saved from sinking under it by the 
compassion of a ^-oung girl at a wake, from whom 
he got a handful of gray peas. This he used to say 
was the most delicious repast he had ever made. 
While in this state of hunger and wretchedness, 
without money and without friends, the rashness 
and folly of liis undertaking became every moment 
more apparent, and, in spite of liis lacerated feel- 
ings, and the dread of Wilder, he resolved to pro- 
pose a reconciliation with his friends, and once 
more to return to the college. Before he had 
reached the place of embarkation, therefore, he con- 
trived to get notice conveyed to his brother of his 
miserable condition, and hinted that if a promise 
of milder treatment were obtained from his tutor, 
he should be inclined to return. His affectionate 
brother instantly hastened to relieve his distress, 
equipped him vnih new clothing, and carried him 
back to college. A reconcihation was also in some 
degree effected with Wilder, but there was never 
afterwards between them any interchange of friend- 
ship or regard. 

From the despondency resulting from his tutor's 



10 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



ill treatment, Goldsmith is said to have sunk iato 
habitual indolence; yet his genius sometimes dawn- 
ed through the gloom, and translations from the 
classics made, by him at this period were long re- 
membered by his cotemporaries with applause. He 
was not, however, admitted to the degree of Bache- 
lor of Arts tiU February 27, 1749, O. S. two years 
after the regular time. 

The chagrin and vexation attending his unlucky 
disputes with his tutor, were soon after succeeded 
by a calamity of deeper moment, and more lasting 
consequences to our poet. This was the death of 
his worthy and amiable father. He had now lost 
his natural guardian and best friend, and found 
himself young in the world, without either protector 
or guide. His uncle Contarine, however, in this 
emergency kindly interfered, and, with almost pa- 
rental anxiety, took the charge of advising and di 
recting his future progress. When he had com- 
pleted his studies at the university,* Mr. Contarine 
advised liim to prepare for holy orders ; but this was 
a measure always repugnant to his inclinations. 
An unsettled turn of mind, an miquenchable de- 
sire of visiting other countries, and perhaps an in- 
genuous sense of his unfitness for the clerical pro- 
fession, conspired to disincUne him to the church ; 
and though at length he yielded to the pressing so- 
licitations of his uncle and friends, by appl3dng to 
the bishop for ordination, it is thought he was more 
pleased than disappointed when rejected by his 
lordship, on account of his youth. He was now 
anxious, however, to be employed in some way or 
other, and when the office of private tutor in the 
family of a neighbouring gentleman was offered to 
him, he willingly accepted it. In tliis situation he 
remained about a year; but finding the emploj-ment 
much more disagreeable than he had been taught 
to believe it, and the necessary confinement pain- 
fully irksome, he suddenly gave up his charge, pro- 
cured a good horse, and, with about thirty potmds 
which he had saved, quitted his friends, and set 
out nobody knew whither. 

As tliis singular unpremeditated step had been 
taken without consulting any of his friends, and 
as no intelligence could be obtained either of him- 
self or the motives which had prompted his de- 
parture, his family became much alarmed for liis 
safety, and were justly offended at his conduct. 



*Dming his studies at llie university, he was a contempo- 
rary with Burke ; and it has been said that neitlier of them 
gave much promise of future celebrity. Goldsmith, however, 
got a premium at a Christmas examination; and a premium 
obtained at such examination is more honourable than any 
other, because it ascertains tlie person wlio receives it to be 
the first in literary merit. At tlic other examinations, the 
person thus distinguished may be only the second in merit ; 
he who has previously obtained the same honorary reward, 
Bometimes recei\'ing a written certificate that he was the best 
answerer ; it being a rule, that not more than one premium 
should be adjudged to the same person in one year. 



Week after week passed away, and no tidings 
of the fugitive. At last, when all hope of his re- 
turn had been given up, and when they concluded 
he must ha-ve left the country altogether, the fami- 
ly were astonished by his sudden reappearance at 
his mother's house; safe and sound, to be sure, but 
not exactly in such good trim as when he had left 
them. His horse was metamorphosed into a 
shabby Utile pony, not worth twenty sliillings; 
and instead of thirty pounds in his pocket, he was 
without a penny. On this occasion the indignation 
of his mother was strongly expressed; but his 
brothers and sisters, who were all tenderly attach- 
ed to him, interfered, and soon effected a recon- 
ciliation. • 

Once more reinstated in the good graces of his 
family, our poet amused them with a detail of 
his adventures in this last expedition. He pre- 
mised that he had long felt a strong inchnation to 
visit the New World, but knowing that his friends 
would throw obstacles in the way of his departure, 
he had determined to set out unknown to any of 
them. Intending to embark at Cork, he had gone 
directly thither, and immediately after he arrived 
disposed of his horse, and struck a bargain with a 
captain of a ship bound for North America. For 
three weeks after his arrival, the wind continued 
unfavorable for putting to sea ; and the vessel re- 
mained wind-bound in the harbour. In the mean 
time, he amused liimself by sauntering about the 
city and its environs, satisfying his curiosity, and 
examining every object worthy of notice. Hav- 
ing formed some acquaintances by means of the 
captain, he accompanied a party on an excursion 
into the comitry. The idea never occurred to him, 
that the wind, wliich had blown so perversely 
a-head during there weeks, might change in a sin- 
gle day ; he was not less surprised than chagrined, 
therefore, on his retm'n next morning, to find the 
vessel gone. Tliis was a death-blow to his scheme 
of emigration, as his passage-money was already 
in the pocket of the captain. 

Mortified and disappointed, he lingered about 
Cork, irresolute what to do, until the langxdshing 
state of his purse, wliich was reduced to two gui- 
neas, admonished him to make the best of his way 
home. He accordingly bought a poor httle pony, 
which he called Fiddleback, and found that he had 
just five sliillings left to defray the travelhng expen- 
ses of himself and liis steed. Tliis pittance, how- 
ever, was rather too scanty for a journey of a hun- 
dred and twenty miles, and he was at a loss how 
to procure a further supply. He at last bethought 
liimself of an old college friend, who lived on the 
road, not far from Cork, and determined to apply 
to liim for assistance. Having been often pressed 
by tliis person to spend a summer at his house, he 
had the less hesitation in paying him a visit under 
his present circumstances, and doubted not that he 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



11 



^ould at once obtain all the aid his situation re- 
quired. When on the road to the house of his 
friend, a poor woman with eight children, whose 
husband had been thrown into jail for rent, threw 
herself in his v/ay and implored for relief. The 
feelings of humanity being ever most easily awak- 
ened in Oliver's bosom, he gave her all that re- 
mained in his purse, and trusted his own wants to 
the expected liberality of liis old fellow-collegian. 

This dear friend, whose promised hospitalities 
were so securely relied on, received him with much 
apparent satisfaction, and only appeared anxious 
to learn the motive which could have prompted 
this chance visit. Charmed with this seeming cor- 
diality with which he was received, Oliver gave 
him an artless and honest account of his whole ex- 
pedition; and did not even conceal the cifTence 
which his departure musthave given to his friends. 
His good host listened with profound attention, 
and appeared to take so much interest in the detail 
of our poet's adventures, that he was at length in- 
duced to disclose the immediate object of his visit. 
This chanced to be the true touch-stone for try- 
ing the liberality of so honest a friend. A profound 
sigh, and querulous declamation on his own in- 
firm state of health, was the only return to Ms hint 
for assistance. When pressed a little further, this 
kind friend drily remarked, that for his part he 
could not understand how some people got them- 
selves into scrapes ; that on any other occasion he 
would have been happy to accommodate an old 
comrade, but really he had been lately so very ill, 
and was, even now, in such a sickly condition, 
that it was very inconvenient to entertain compa- 
ny of any kind. Besides, he could not well ask a 
person in health to share in lais slops and milk 
diet. If, however, Mr. Goldsmith could think of 
putting up with the family fare, such as it was, he 
would be made welcome; at the same time he 
must apprise him that it might not soon be got 
ready. The astonishment and dismay of our poet 
at the conclusion of this speech was sufficiently 
visible in his lengthened visage. Nothing but the 
utter emptiness of his purse, and his great distance 
from home, could have induced liim to pocket the 
insult, or accept so inhospitable an invitation. No 
better, however, could be made of it in his present 
circtun stances; so without showdng his chagrin, he 
good-humouredly partook of a miserable supper of 
brown bread and butter millc, served up at a late 
hour by a miserable looldng old woman, the fit 
handmaid of so miserable a ^master. 

Notwithstanding the Base colours in which our 
poet's host had exhibited himself, the former had too 
much good-nature to harbour resentment. When 
they met in the morning, therefore, he entered fa- 
miliarly into conversation, and even condescended 
to ask what he would advise him to do in his pre- 
sent difRculty. "My dear fellow," said his host, 



"return home immediately. You can never do with- 
out the assistance of your friends ; and if you keep 
them longer in suspense and alarm by remaining. 
away, you will only widen the breach which your 
rashness must have already occasioned, and perhaps- 
induce them to throv/ you off altogether." " But," 
rejoined Oliver, "how am I to get on without mo- 
ney! I told you I 'had not a shilling left, and it is 
quite impossible for me to proceed on the journey, 
unless you should be so obliging as to lend me a 
guinea "for the purpose." Here again his friend's 
countenance fell. He pleaded his inability to lend, 
in consequence of having spent all his ready cash 
during his late illness, interlarding this apology 
with many sage aphorisms on the disadvantages of 
boiTowing, and the sin of running into debt. " But 
my dear fellow," resumed he, " I'll tell you how 
you may get over the difficulty. May you not 
sell the little horse you brought with you last 
nightl The price of it will be suffxient for aU 
your expenses till you arrive among your friends, 
and, in the mean time, I think I can furnish you 
with another to help you forward on the jorur- 
ney." Oliver could discover no objection to apian, 
so feasible, and therefore agreed to it at once; but 
when he asked for a sight of the steed wliich was 
to carry him home, his host, with solemn gravity^ 
drew from under the bed a stout oaken staff, which 
he presented to him with a grin of self-approba- 
tion. Our poor poet now lost all patience, and was 
just about to snatch it from hun, and apply it to 
Ins pate, when a loiid rap announced a visiter. A 
person of interesting appearance was immediately 
afterwards ushered into the room, and, when the us- 
ual compliments were over, Oliver was presented to 
him by his host, as if nothing had happened, and 
described as the learned and ingenious young man 
of whom he had heard so much while at college. 
The agreeable manners of this gentleman soon 
gave an interesting turn to the conversation. Har- 
mony appeared to be once more restored between 
Oliver and his host, and the stranger invited them 
both to dine with him the following day. This 
was not acceded to on the part of the poet, with- 
out considerable reluctance; but the gentleman's 
pressing solicitations prevailed on him to consent. 
The hospitality and kindness displayed at tliis per- 
son's table was a strildng contrast to the penury 
and meanness exhibited by his fellow-collegian, 
and Oliver could hardly refrain from maldng some 
sarcastic remarks on the difference. The hints on 
this subject which were occasionally hazarded by 
the poet, led the gentleman to suspect that the two 
friends were not on the most cordial tenns. He 
was therefore induced to invite our poet to spend a 
few days at his house. An invitation of this kind, 
so opportunely and handsomely given, was a for- 
tunate circumstance for OUver. He did not hesi- 
tate a moment to accept it, and at parting with his 



12 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



dear fellow-collegian, .archly recommended to him 
to take good care of the steed kept at so much ex- 
pense for the use of his friends; and, of all things, 
to beware of surfeiting them with a milk diet. To 
this sarcasm the other only replied by a sneer at 
the poet's poverty and improvident disposition. 
Their host being well acquainted with the charac- 
ter of his neighbour, seemed, when Ohver after- 
wards recounted to him aU the circumstances that 
had taken place, to be more amused than surprised 
at the detail. 

In the house of this new friend Goldsmith expe- 
rienced the most hospitable entertainment for seve- 
ral days. Two beautiful daughters, as well as the 
host himself, were emulous in finding amusement 
for their guest during his stay; and when about to 
depart, he was offered money to defray the expense 
of his journey, and a servant to attend him on 
horseback. The servant and horse he declined, 
but accepted of a loan of three half-guineas ; and 
with sentiments of the deepest respect and grati- 
tude, took leave of his benevolent host. 

He now pursued his journey without any fur- 
ther interruption, and arrived at his mother's house 
in the sudden and unexpected manner already nar- 
rated. Once more reconciled to his friends, he did 
not fail to transmit to his Idnd benefactor suitable 
acknowledgments expressive of the grateful sense 
he entertained of such unlooked-for and generous 
hospitaUty. 

It was now considered essential that he should 
fix on a profession, the pursuit of which might di- 
vert him from idle and expensive habits. After 
various consultations, it was determined that he 
should begin the study of the law, and his uncle 
Contarine agreed to advance the necessary funds. 
Provided with money for the expenses of his jour- 
ney, and to enable him to enter on his studies at 
the Temple, Oliver set out for London, but his 
customary imprudence again interfered. He fell 
by accident into the company of a sharper in Dub- 
lin, and being tempted to engage in play, was soon 
plundered of all his money, and again left to find 
his way home Vv^ithout a shilling in his pocket. 

His friends now almost despaired of him. Not- 
withstanding the brilliancy of his natural talents, 
it was feared that his habitual carelessness and im- 
providence would form a bar to his success in any 
profession whatever. That it would be vain for 
him to pursue the study of the law with such dis- 
positions was ob\ious ; and, of course, it was neces- 
sary once more to cast about for a profession. Af- 
ter various consultations, therefore, it was finally 
determined that physic should .be his future pur- 
suit; and his kind uncle, who had been prevailed 
on to pardon him once more, took him again under 
his protection, and at last fixed him at Edinburgh 
aa a student of medicine, about the end of the year 
1752. On his ariival in that citj^, he had no sooner 



deposited his trunk in lodgings than he sallied out 
to see the town. He rambled about until a late 
hour, and when he felt disposed to turn his face 
homeward, recollected for the first time that he 
knew neither the name nor address of his landlady. 
In this dilemma, as he was wandering at random, 
he fortunately met with the porter who had carried 
his baggage, and who now served him as a guide. 

In the University of Edinburgh, at that time be 
coming famous as a school of medicine, he attend- 
ed the lectures of the celebrated Monro, and the 
other professors in medical science. What pro- 
gress he made in this study, however, is not par- 
ticularly ascertained. Riotous conviviality, and 
tavern adjournments, whether for business or plea- 
sure, were at that tune characteristic of Edinburgh 
society ; and it does not appear that our poet was 
able to resist the general contagion. His attention 
to his studies was far from being regular. Dissi- 
pation and play allured him from the class-room, 
and his health and his purse suffered in conse- 
quence. About this period, his contemporaries have 
reported, that he sometimes also sacrificed to the 
Muses, but of these early effusions no specimen 
seems to have been preserved. 

The social and good-humoured qualities of oui 
poet appear to have made him a general favourite 
with his fellow-students. He was a keen partici- 
pator in all their wild pranks and humorous frolics. 
He was also a prime table companion : always rea- 
dy with story, anecdote, or song, though it must be 
confessed that in such exliibitions he was far from 
being successful. His narrations were too frequent- 
ly accompanied by grimace or buffoonery; nor was 
his wit of that chaste and classical kind that might 
have been expected from liis education. On the 
contrary, it was generally forced, coarse, and un- 
natural. All his oral communications partook of 
these defects ; and it is a fact not less true than sin- 
gular, that even in after life he was never exempt 
from them, although accustomed to the politest li- 
terary society. 

When conversing on this feature in our poet's 
character, his friend Dr. Johnson many years after- 
wards, justly, but perhaps rather severely, remark- 
" The misfortune of Goldsmith in conversation 
is this : he goes on without loiowing how he is to get 
off. His genius is great, but his knowledge is small. 
As they say of a generous man, it is a pity he is 
not rich, we may say of Goldsmith, it is a pity he is 
not knowing : he would not keep his knowledge to 
himself." 

On another occasion, Johnson being called on for 
his opinion on the same subject, took a similar view 
of it, with much critical acumen, and all his usual 
power of amplification. "Goldsmith," said he, 
should not be for ever attempting to shine in con- 
versation; he has not temper for it, he is so much 
mortified when he fails. A game of jokes is com- 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



13 



posed partly of skill, partly of chance ; a man may 
be beat at times by one who has not the tenth part 
of his wit. Now Goldsmith's putting himself 
against another, is like a man laying a hundred to 
one, who can not spare the hundred. It is not 
Worth a man's wliile. A man should not lay a 
hundred to one, unless he can easily spare it; though 
he has a hundred chances for him, he can get but 
a guinea, and he may lose a hundred. Goldsmith 
is in this state : when he contends, if he get the bet- 
ter, it is a very little addition to a man of his literary 
reputation; if he do not get the better, he is misera- 
bly vexed." 

Though now arrived at an age when reflection 
on passing objects and events might have been oc- 
casionally elicited, yet it does not appear that any 
thing of that kind worth preserving occurred in our 
poet's correspondence with his friends. The only 
circumstance which seems to have excited particu- 
lar remark was the economy of the Scotch in cook- 
ing and eating ; and of tliis he would sometimes give 
rather a ludicrous account. His first landlady, he 
used to say, nearly starved him out of his lodgings ; 
and the second, though somewhat more hberal, was 
still a wonderful adept in the art of saving. When 
permitted to put forth all her talents in this way, 
she would perform surprising feats. A single loin 
of mutton would sometimes be made to serve our 
poet and two fellow-students a whole week ; a bran- 
dered chop was served up one day, a fried steak ano- 
ther, collops with onion sauce a third, and so on, till 
the fleshy parts were quite consumed, when finally 
a dish of broth was made from the well-picked bones 
on the seventh day, and the landlady rested from 
her labours. 

After he had attended some courses of lectures at 
Edinburgh, it was thought advisable that he should 
complete his medical studies at the University of 
Leyden, then celebrated as a great medical school 
his uncle Contarine furnishing the funds. Gold- 
smith accordmgly looked out at Leith for a vessel 
for Holland ; but finding one about to sail for Bor- 
deaux, with lais usual eccentricity engaged a pas- 
sage. He found liimself, however, in an awkward 
dilemma about the time of embarkation. He had 
become security to a tailor for a fellow-student in a 
considerable amount. The tailor arrested him for 
debt; and, but fin' the interference of Mr. Lachlan 
Maclane and Dr. Sleigh, he would have been 
thrown into prison. Rescued from this difficulty, 
he embarked, but encountered a stonn, and a de- 
tention, and an escape from shipwreck, and finally 
arrived safe at Rotterdam, instead of Bordeaux; all 
which is thus related by himself, in an extract from 
a letter, vnthout date, to his generous uncle Conta- 
rine. 

" Some time after the receipt of your last, I em- 
barked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship, call- 
ed the St. Andrew, CaptaLa John Wall, master. 



The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as ano- 
ther inducement, I was let to know that six agree- 
able passengers were to be my company. WeU, 
we were but two days at sea when a storm drove 
us into a city of England, called Newcastle-upon- 
Tyne. We all went ashore to refresh us, after the 
fatigue of our voyage. Seven men and I were one 
day on shore, and on the following evening, as we 
were all very merry, the room door bursts open, en- 
ters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers, with their 
bayonets screwed, and puts us all under the king's 
arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in 
the French service, and had been in Scotland to 
enhst soldiers for the French army. I endeavoured 
all I could to prove my innocence; however, I re- 
mained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with 
difficulty got oft' even then. Dear sir, keep this all 
a secret, or at least say it was for debt ; for if it were 
once known at the university, I should hardly get 
a degree. But hear how Providence interposed in 
my favour ; the sliip was gone on to Bordeaux be- 
fore I got from prison, and was wrecked at the 
mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew 
were drowned. It happened the last great storm. 
There was a ship at that time ready for HoUand; 
I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God, I ar- 
rived safe at Rotterdam, whence I travelled by land 
to Leyden, and whence I now write." 

He proceeds in the same letter to amuse his 
friends with a whimsical account of the costume 
and manners of the Hollanders; which we also ex- 
tract for the entertaimnent of the reader. 

" You may expect some account of this country ; 
and though I am not well quahfied for such an un- 
dertaking, yet I shall endeavour to satisfy some 
part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me 
more than the books every day pubUshed descrip- 
tive of the manners of tliis country. Any young 
man who takes it into liis head to publish his travels^ 
visits the countries he intends to describe; passes 
through them with as much inattention as his valei 
de chambre; and consequently, not having a fund 
himself to fill a volume, he apphes to those who 
wrote before him, and gives us the manners of a 
country; not as he must have seen them, but such 
as they might have been fifty years before. The 
modern Dutchman is quite a different creature from 
him of former times: he in every thing imitates a 
Frenchman, but in his easy disengaged air, which 
is the result of keeping pohte company. The 
Dutchman is vastly ceremonious, and is perhaps 
exactly what a Frenchman might have been in the 
reign of Louis XIV. Such are the better bred. 
But the downright Hollander is one of the oldest 
figures in nature. Upon a head of lank hair he 
wears a half-cocked narrow hat, laced with black 
riband; no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pair 
of breeches; so that his liips reach almost up to his 
arm-pits. This well-clothed vegetable is now fit to 



14 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



see company, or make love. But what a pleasing 
creature is the object of Ms appetitel Why, she 
wears a large fur cap, with a deal of Flanders lace; 
and for every pair of breeches he carries, she puts 
on two petticoats. 

" A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phleg- 
matic admirer but his tobacco. You must know, 
sir, every woman carries in her hand a stove with 
coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under 
her petticoats ; and at this chimney dozing Strephon 
lights his pipe. I take it that this continual smok- 
ing is what gives the man the ruddy healthful com- 
plexion he generally wears, by draining his super- 
fluous moisture ; while the woman, deprived of this 
amusement, overflows with such viscidities as tint 
the complexion, and give that paleness of visage 
which low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to 
cause. A Dutch woman and a Scotch will bear 
an opposition. The one is pale and fat, the other 
lean and ruddy. The one walks as if she were 
straddlmg after a go-cart, and the other takes too 
masculine a stride. I shall not endeavour to de- 
prive either country of its share of beauty; but 
must say, that of all objects on this earth, an En- 
glish farmer's daughter is most charming. Every 
woman there is a complete beauty, while the higher 
class of women want many of the requisites to 
make them even tolerable. Their pleasures here 
are very dull, though very various. You may 
smoke, you may doze, you may go to the Italian 
comedy, as good an amusement as either of the for- 
mer. This entertainment always brings in Har- 
lequin, who is generally a magician; and in conse- 
quence of his diabohcal art, perforins a thousand 
tricks on the rest of the persons of the drama, who 
are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of laughs 
ter at this humour, when with his sword he touches 
the glass from which another was drinking. ' Twas 
not Ms face they laughed at, for that was masked: 
they must have seen something vastly queer in the 
wooden sword, that neither I, nor you, sir, were 
you there, could see. 

•"-•" " In winter, when their canals are frozen, every 
house is forsaken, and all people are on the ice ; 
sleds drawn by horses, and skating, are at that 
time the reigmng amusements. They have boats 
here that slide on the ice, and are driven by the 
winds. When they spread all their sails they go 
more than a mile and a half a minute, and their 
motion is so rapid, the eye can scarcely accompany 
them. Their ordinary manner of travelling is very 
cheap and very convenient. They sail in covered 
boats drawn by horses ; and in these you ai-e sure 
to meet people of all nations. Here the Dutch 
slumber, the French chatter, and the English play 
at cards. Any man who likes company, may have 
them to Ms taste. For my part, I generally de- 
tached myself from all society, and was wholly 
taken up in observing the face of the country. No- 



tliing can equal its beauty. Wherever I turn my 
eyes, fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottos, 
vistas, presented themselves ; but when you enter 
their towns you are charmed beyond description. 
No misery is to be seen here ; every one is usefu^ 
ly employed. 

"Scotland and tliis country bear the Mghest 
contrast. There, hills and rocks' intercept every 
prospect; here,' 'tis all a continued plain. There 
you might see a well dressed duchess issuing from 
a dirty close ; and here a dirty Dutchman inhabit- 
ing a palace. The Scotch may be compared to a 
tulip planted in dung; but I never see.a Dutchman 
in Ms own house, but I think of a magnificent 
Egyptian temple dedicated to an ox. 

" Physic is by no means taught here so well as 
m Edinburgh ; and in all Leyden there are but 
four British students, owing to all necessaries being 
so extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy 
(the chemical professor excepted,) that we don't 
much care to come Mther. I am not certaia how 
long my stay here may be ; however, I expect to 
have the happiness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I 
can, next March." 

WMle resident in Leyden, he attended the lec- 
tures of Gaubius on chemistry, and those of Albi- 
nus on anatomy. In the letters of Goldsmith to 
Ms uncle, Gaubius is the only professor of whose 
talents he gives a favourable opinion.* Of all the 
other professors he seems to have formed rather a 
contemptuous estimate ; and with regard to the in- 
habitants in general, Ms remarks are by no means 
of a laudatory description. But to appreciate the 
characters of men, and describe the manners of a 
people with accuracy, require the mcest discrimi- 
nation, and much knowledge of the world. On 
such subjects, therefore, the opimons of our poel^ 
at this early period of his life, are to be the less re- 
garded. His Dutch characteristics can only be 
deemed good humoured caricatures, and probably 
were drawn as such, merely for the amusement of 
Ms friends m Ireland. 

It happened, unfortunately for Goldsmith, that 
one of Ms most dangerous propensities met with 
too much encouragement during Ms stay in Hol- 
land. The people of that country are much addict- 
ed to games of chance. Gaming tables are to be 
met with in every tavern, and at every place of 
amusement. Goldsmith, unable to resist the con- 
tagion of example, with his usual facUity sailed 
with the stream; and fortune, accoixhng to custom, 
alternately greeted him with smiles and frowns. 

His friend, Dr. EUis,t who was then also study- 
ing at Leyden, used to relate, that on one occasion 
he came to him with much exultation, and couut- 



* Gaubius died in 1780, at tlie age of 75, leaving a splendid 
reputation. He was tlie favourite pupil of Boerhaave. and 
wrote several learned and ingenious works. 

\ Aftei-wards clerii of the Irish House of Commons. 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



1& 



ed out a considerable sum wliicli lie had won the 
preceding evening. " Perceiving that tliis tempo 
rary success," said Elhs, "was only fanning the 
flame of a ruhious passion, I was at some pains to 
point out to him the destructive consequences of 
indulging so dangerous a propensity. I exhorted 
him, since fortune had for once been unusually 
kind, to rest satisfied with his present gains, and 
showed, that if he set apart the money now in his 
hands, he would be able to complete his studies 
without further assistance from his friends. Gold- 
smith, who could perceive, though he could not al- 
ways pursue the right path, admitted all the truth 
of my observations, seemed grateful for my advice, 
and promised for the future strictly to adhere to it." 
The votary of play, however, is never to be so 
easily cured. Reason and ridicule are equally im- 
potent against that unliappy passion. To those 
infected with it, the charms of the gaming table 
may be said to be omnipotent. Soon after this, he 
once more gave himself up to it without control, 
and not only lost all he had lately won, but was 
stripped of every sliilling he had in the world. In 
this emergency he was obhged to have recourse to 
Dr. EUis for advice. His friend perceived that ad- 
monition was useless, and that so long as he re- 
mained within reach of the vortex of play, his, 
gambUng propensities could never be restrained 
It was therefore determined that he ought to quit 
HoUand ; and with a view to his further improve- 
ment, it was suggested that he should visit some 
of the neighbouring countries before returning to 
Ms own. He readily acceded to this proposal, and 
notwithstanding the paucity of his means, resolved 
to pursue it without delay. Elhs, however, kindly 
took his wants into consideration, and agreed to 
accommodate him with a sum of money to carry 
his plan into execution ; but in tliis, as in other in- 
stances, his heedless improvidence interfered to 
render his friend's generosity abortive. When about 
to set out on his journey, accident or curiosity led 
him into a garden at Leyden, where the choicest 
flowers were* reared for sale. In consequence of an 
unaccountable mania for flowers having at one 
time spread itself over Holland, an extensive trade 
in flower roots became universally prevalent in that 
co\mtry, and at this period the Dutch florists were 
the most celebrated in Europe.* Fortunes and 
law suits innumerable had been lost and won in 
this singular traffic ; and though the rage had now 
greatly subsided, flower roots still bore a considera- 
ble value. Unluckily, while rambling through the 
garden at Leyden, Goldsmith recollected that his 



* It was the celebrated tulip mania. For a tulip root, known 
by the name of Semper Augustus, 550Z. sterling was given; 
and for other tulip roots less rare, various prices were given, 
from one himdred to four hundred guineas. Tliis madness 
raged in Holland for many years, till at length the State in- 
terfered, and a law was enacted which put a stop to the trade. 



uncle was an amateur of such rarities. With his 
usual inconsiderateness he immediately concluded 
a bargain for a parcel of the roots, never reflecting 
on liis own limited means, or the purpose for which 
his money had been furnished. This absurd and 
extravagant purchase nearly exhausted the fund 
he had already received from his friend Elhs, and 
it is not unlikely that the gaming table gleaned the 
httle that remained ; for it has often been asserted, 
that after his magnificent speculation in tulip roots 
he actually set out upon his travels with only one 
clean shirt, and without a shilling in his pocket. 

When this expedition was projected, it is most 
likely that nothing more was intended than a short 
excursion into Belgium and France. The passion 
for travel, however, which had so long lain dormant 
in his mind was now thoroughly awakened. 
Blessed with a good constitution, an adventurous 
spirit, and with that thoughtless, or perhaps happy 
disposition, which takes no care for to-morrow, he 
continued his travels for a long time in spite of in- 
numerable privations; and neither poverty, fatigue, 
nor hardship, seems to have damped his ardour, or 
interrupted his progress. It is a well authenticated 
fact, that he performed the tour of Europe on foot, 
and that he fitnished the arduous and singular un- 
dertaldng without any other means than was ob- 
tained by an occasional display of his scholarship, 
or a tune upon his flute. 

It is much to be regretted that no account of his 
tour was ever given to the world by himself. The 
oral communications which he sometimes gave to 
friends, are said to have borne some resem- 
blance to the story of the Wanderer in the Vicar of 
Wakefield. The interest they excited did not arise 
so much from the novelty of the incidents as from 
the fine vein of moral reflection interwoven with 
the narrative. Like the Wanderer, he possessed a 
sufficient portion of ancient hterature, some taste 
in music, and a tolerable knowledge of the French 
language. His learning was a passport to the hos- 
pitaUties of the literary and religious establish- 
ments on the continent, and the music of his flute 
generally procured him a welcome reception at the 
cottages of the peasantry. "Whenever I ap- 
proached a peasant's house towards night-fall," he 
used to say, "I played one of my merriest tunes, 
and that procured me not only a lodging, but sub- 
sistence for the next day; but, in truth;" his con- 
stant expression, " I must own, whenever I attempt-" 
ed to entertain persons of a higher rank, they al- 
ways thought my performance odious, and never 
made me any return for my endeavours to please 
them." The hearty good-vdll, however, with 
which he was received by the harmless peasantry, 
seems to have atoned to him for the disregard of 
the rich. How much their simple maimers won 
upon his affections, may be discovered from the fine 



16 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



passage in his "Traveller," in which he so happi- 
ly introduces himself: — 

How often have I led thy sportive choir 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew: 
And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'ring still. 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancers' skiU, 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
The learned and religious houses also appear to 
have been equally hospitable. "With the mem- 
bers of these establishments," said he, "I could 
converse on topics of literature, and then I always 
forgot the meanness of my circumstances." 

In many of the foreign universities and con- 
vents there are, upon certain days, philosophical 
theses mamtained against every adventitious dis- 
putant ; for which, if the champion opposes with 
any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, 
a dinner, and a bed for one night. The talents of 
Goldsmith freqiiently enabled him to command the 
reUef afforded by this useful and hospitable cus- 
tom. In tills maiiner, without money or friends, 
he fought his way from convent to convent, and 
from city to city, examined manldnd more nearly, 
and, as he himself expressed it, saw both sides of 
the picture. 

To Goldsmith's close and familiar intercourse 
with the scenes and natives of the different coun- 
tries through which he passed, the world is indebt- 
ed for his " Traveller." For although that poem 
was afterwards " slowly and painfuUy elaborated," 
still the nice and accurate discrhnination of na- 
tional character displayed could only be acquired 
by actual examination. In the progress of his 
journey, he seems to have treasured liis facts and 
observations, with a view to the formation of this 
delightful poem. The first sketch of it is said to 
have been written after his arrival in Svntzerland, 
and was transmitted from that comitry to his bro- 
ther Henry in Ireland. 

After his arrival in Switzerland, he took up his 
abode for some time in Geneva. Here he appears 
to have found friends, or formed acquaintances ; 
for we find him recommended at this place as tu- 
tor to a yoimg gentleman on his travels. The 
youth to whom he was recommended was the ne- 
phew of Mr. S****** pawnbroker in London, 
who had unexpectedly acquired a large fortune by 
the death of liis uncle. Determined to see the 
world, he had just arrived at Geneva on the grand 
tour, and not being provided with a travelling tu- 
tor. Goldsmith was hired to perform the functions 
of that office. They set out together for Mar- 
seilles; but never were tutor and pupil so miserably 
assorted. The latter, before acquiiing his fortmie, 
had been for some time articled to an attorney, and 
while in that capacity had so well learned the art 
of managing in money concerns, that it had at 



length become his favomite study. Naturally ava- 
ricious, his training as an attorney had nothing 
diminished the reign of that sordid passion, and it 
discovered its most odious features in almost every 
transaction. When he engaged a tutor, there- 
fore, he took care to make a special proviso, that 
in all money matters he should be at liberty to tu- 
tor himself. A stipulation of this kind so cramp- 
ed the views and propensities of Goldsmith, and 
afforded to the pupil so many opportunities of dis- 
playing his mean disposition, that disgust and dis- 
like almost immediately ensued. When arrived 
at Marseilles they mutually agreed to separate; 
and the poet having received the small part of his 
salary that was due, his pupil, tenified at the ex- 
pense of travelling, instantly embarked for Eng- 
land. 

Goldsmith, thus freed from the trammels of tu- 
torship, set out once more on foot, and in that man- 
ner travelled through various districts of France. 
He finally pursued his journey into Italy, visiting 
Venice, Verona, Florence, and other celebrated 
places. At Padua, where he staid six months, he 
is said to have taken a medical degree, but upon 
what authority is not ascertained. While resi- 
dent at Padua he was assisted, it is beUeved, by 
remittances from his uncle Contarine, who, how- 
ever, mifortunately died about that time.* In 
Ital}'', Goldsmith found his talent for music al- 
most useless as a means of subsistence, for every 
peasant was a better musician than himself; but 
his skill in disputation still served his purpose, and 
the religious estabhslmients were equally hospita- 
ble. At length, curiosity being fuUy gratified, he 
resolved to retrace his steps towards his native 
home. He returned through France, as the short- 
er route, and as affording greater facilities to a 
pedestrian. He was lodged and entertained as 
formerly, sometimes at learned and religious estab- 
lishments, and sometimes at the cottages of the 
peasantry, and thus, with the aid of his philoso- 
phy and his flute, he disputed and piped his way 
homewards. 

When Goldsmith arrived at Dover from France, 
it was about the breaking out of the war in 
1755-6. Being unprovided with money, a new 
difficulty now presented itself, how to fight his 



*The Rev. Thomas Contarine was descended from the no- 
ble family of the Contarini of Venice. His ancestor, having 
married a nun in his native country, was obliged to fly with 
her into France, where she died of the small-pox. Being 
pursued by ecclesiastical censures, Contarini came to Eng- 
land; but the pm-itanical manners which then prevailed, hav- 
ing afforded him but a cold reception, he was on his way to 
Ireland, when at Chester he met with a young lady of the 
name of Chaloner whom he married. Having afterwarda 
conformed to the established church, he, tlirough the interest 
of his wife's family, obtained ecclesiastical preferment in the 
diocese of Elphin. This gentleman was their lineal descen- 
dant. — Campbell's Biography of Goldsmith. 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



17 



way to the metropolis. His whole stock of cash 
could not defray the expense of the ordinary con- 
veyance, and neither flute nor logic could help 
him to a supper or a bed. By some means or other, 
however, he contrived to reach London in safety, 
On his arrival he had only a few halfpence in his 
pocket. To use his own words, in one of his let- 
ters, he found himself "without friend, recom- 
mendation, money, or impudence;" and, contrary 
to his usual habits, began to be filled with the 
gloomiest apprehensions. There was not a mo- 
ment to be lost, therefore, in seeking for a sit- 
uation that might afibrd him the means of imme- 
diate subsistence. His first attempt was to get ad- 
mission as an assistant to a boarding-school or aca 
demy, but, for want of a recommendation, even 
that poor and painful situation was found difficult 
to be obtained. This difficulty appears also to have 
been nothing lessened by his stooping to make use of 
a feigned name. What his motives were for such 
a measure has never been fully explained; but it 
is fair to infer, that his Uterary pride revolted at 
servitude, and perhaps, conscious that his powers 
would tdtimately enable him to emerge from his 
present obscurity, he was unwilling it should after- 
wards be known that he had occupied a situation 
so humble. Deceit and finesse, however, are at all 
times dangerous, be the motive for employing them 
ever so innocent; and in the present instance our 
author found them productive of considerable em- 
barrassment; for, when the master of the school 
demanded a reference to some respectable person 
for a character, Goldsmith was at a loss to account 
for using any other name than his own. In this 
dilemma he wrote to Dr. Radcliff, a mild benevo- 
lent man, who had been joint-tutor with his perse- 
cutor Wilder, in Trinity College, and had some- 
times lectured the other pupils. Having can- 
didly stated to the doctor the predicament in which 
he was placed, and explained the immediate object 
in view, he told him that the same post which 
conveyed this information would also bring him a 
letter of inquiry from the school-master, to which 
it was hoped he would be so good as return a fa- 
vourable answer. It appears that Dr. Radchff 
promptly complied with this request, for Goldsmith 
immediately obtained the situation. We learn 
from Campbell's Philosophical Survey of the 
South of Ireland, that our author's letter of thanks 
to Dr. RadchfF on that occasion was accompanied 
with a very interesting account of his travels and 
adventures. 

The employment of usher at an academy in Lon- 
don, is of itself a task of no ordinary labour; but, 
independent of the drudgery and tod, it is attended 
with so many little irritating circumstances, that 
of all others it is perhaps a situation the most pain- 
ftd and irksome to a man of independent mind and 
liberal ideas. To a person of our author's temper 
2 



and habits, it was pecuHarly distasteful. How long 
he remained in this situation is not well ascertained, 
but he ever spoke of it in bitterness of spirit. The 
very remembrance of it seemed to be gall and worm- 
wood to him; and how keenly he must have felt its 
mortification and misery, may be gathered from the 
satire with which it is designated in various parts 
of his works. The language wliich he has put 
into the mouth of the Wanderer's cousin, when he 
appUes to him for an ushership, is feelingly charac- 
teristic. "I," said he, "have been an usher to a 
boarding-school myself; and may I die by an ano- 
dyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turn- 
key in Newgate! I was up early and late: I was 
browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by 
the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never 
permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But, 
are you sure you are fit for a school? Let me 
examine you a little. Have you been bred ap- 
prentice to the business 7" — No. — "Then you won't 
do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair?" — 
No. — " Then you won't do for a school. Have 
you had the small-pox 7" — No. — " Then you won't 
do for a school. Can you he three in a bed?" — 
No. — " Then you will never do for a school. Have 
you got a good stomach?" — Yes. — "Then you 
will by no means do for a school. No, sir: if you 
are for a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself 
seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's 
wheel; but avoid a school by any means." 

On another occasion, when talking on the same 
subject, our author thus summed up the misery of 
such an employment: — "After the fatigues of the 
day, the poor usher of an academy is obliged to 
sleep in the same bed with a Frenchman, a teacher 
of that language to the boys, who disturbs him 
every night, an hour perhaps, in papering and fillet- 
ing his hair, and stinks worse than a carrion, with 
his rancid pomatums, when he lays his head beside 
him on his bolster." 

Having thrown up this wretched employment, 
he was obliged to cast about for one more congenial 
to his mind. In this, however, he again found con- 
siderable difficulty. His personal appearance and 
address were never prepossessing, but at that par- 
ticular period were still less so from the thread-bare 
state of his wardrobe. He applied to several of the 
medical tribe, but had the mortification to meet with 
repeated refusals ; and on more than one occasion 
was jeered with the mimicry of his broad Irish ac.. 
cent. At length a chemist, near Fish-street-hill, 
took him into his laboratory, where his medical 
knowledge soon rendered him an able and useful 
assistant. Not long after this, however, accident 
discovered to him that his old friend and fellow- 
student. Dr. Sleigh, was in London, and he deter- 
mined, if possible, to renew his acquaintance vfith 
him. " It was Sunday," said Goldsmith, "when 
I paid him the 'first visit, and it is to be supposed 1 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



was dressed in my best clothes. Sleigh scarcely 
knew me ; such is the tax the unfortunate pay to 
poverty. However, when he did recollect me, I 
found his heart as warm as ever, and he shared his 
purse and his friendship with me during his con- 
tinuance in London." 

The friendship of Dr. Sleigh* was not confined 
to the mere relief of our poet's immediate wants,^ 
but showed itself in an anxious soUcitude for his 
permanent success in life. Nobody better knew 
how to appreciate his talents and acquirements, and 
the accurate knowledge that Sleigh possessed of 
London quaUfied him to advise and direct the poet 
in his subsequent pursuits. Accordingly we find 
that Goldsmith, encouraged by his friend's advice, 
commenced medical practitioner at Bankside, in 
Southwark, whence he afterwards removed to the 
Temple and its neighbourhood. In Southwark it 
appears that his practice did not answer his ex- 
pectations, but in the vicinity of the Temple he 
was more successful. The fees of the physician, I 
however, were little, and that Uttle, as is usual 
among the poorer classes, was very iU paid. He 
found it necessary, therefore, to have recourse lilie- . 
wise to his pen, and being introduced by Dr. 
Sleigh to some of the booksellers, was almost im- 
mediately engaged in their service; — and thus, I 
" with very little practice as a physician, and very j 
little reputation as a poet," as he himself expresses [ 
it, he made " a shift to live." The peculiarities of j 
his situation at this period are described in the fol- ' 
lowing letter, addressed to the gentleman who had 
married his eldest sister. It is dated Temple Ex- 
change Coifee-house, December 27, 1757, and ad- 
dressed to Daniel Hodson, Esq., at Lishoy, near 
Ballymahon, Ireland. 

" Dear Sir, — It may be four years since my last 
letters went to Ireland; and from you in particular 
I received no answer, probably because you never 
wrote to me. My brother Charles, however, in- 
forms me of the fatigue you were at in sohciting a 
subscription to assist me, not only among my friends 
and relations, but acquaintance in general. Though 
my pride might feel some repugnance at being thus 
relieved, yet my gratitude can suffer no diminution. 
How much am I obliged to you, to them, for such 
generosity, or (why should not your virtues have 
the proper name) for such charity to me at that 
juncture. Sure I am born to ill fortune, to be so 
much a debtor, and unable to repay. But to say 
no more of this : too many professions of gratitude 
are often considered as indirect petitions for future 
favours ; let me only add, that my not receiving that 
supply was the cause of my present estabhshment 



* This gentleman subsequently settled in Cork, his native 
city, and was rapidly rising into eminence in his profession, 
■when he was cut off in the flower of his age hy an inflamma- 
tory fever, which deprived the world of a fine scholar, a skilful 
physician, and an honest man. 



at London. You may easUy imagine what diffi- 
cxolties I had to encounter, left as I was without 
friends, recommendations, money, or impudence j 
and that in a country where being born an Irish-* 
man was sufficient to keep me unemployed. Maiiy 
in such circumstances would have had recourse ttf 
the friar's cord, or the suicide's halter. But, with 
all my folhes, I had principle to resist the one, and 
resolution to combat the other. 

" 1 suppose you desire to know my present situ- 
ation. As there is nothing in it at which I shoxdd 
blush, or which mankind could censure, I see n& 
reason for making it a secret. In short, by a very 
little practice as a physician, and a very little repu- 
tation as a poet, I make a shift to live. Nothing is 
more apt to introduce us to the gates of the Muses 
than poverty ; but it were well for us if they only 
left us at the door — the mischief is, they sometimes' 
choose to give us their company at the entertain-' 
ment, and want, instead of being gentleman usher, 
often turns master of the ceremonies. Thus, upon 
hearing I write, no doubt you imagine I starve ; 
and the name of an author naturally reminds you 
of a garret. In this particular I do not think pro- 
per to undeceive my friends. But whether I eat 
or starve ; live in a first floor, or four pair of stairs 
high, I still remember them with ardour ; nay, my 
very country comes in for a share of my affection. 
Unaccountable fondness for country, this maladie 
du pays, as the French call it! Unaccountable, 
that he should still have an affection for a place, 
who never received, when in it, above coromon ci- 
vility ; who never brought any thing out of it, ex- 
cept his brogue and his blunders. Surely my affec- 
tion is equally ridiculous with the Scotchman's, 
who refused to be cured of the itch because it made 
him unco thoughtful o' his wife and bonnie Inve- 
rary. But now to be serious ; let me ask myself 
what gives me a wish to see Ireland again 1 The 
country is a fine one, perhaps ? No. — There are 
good company in Ireland? No. — The conversation 
there is generally made up of a smutty toast, or a 
bawdy song. The vivacity supported by some 
humble cousin, who has just folly enough to earn 
his dinner. — Then, perhaps, there is more wit and 
learning among the Irish ? Oh, Lord, no ! There 
has been more money spent in the encouragement 
of the Podareen mare there in one season, than 
given in rewards to learned men since the time of 
Usher. All their productions in learning amount 
to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts in divinity; 
and all their productions in wit to just nothing at 
all. — Why the plague, then, so fond of Ireland 7 
Then, all at once, because you, my dear friend, 
and a few more, who are exceptions to the general 
picture, have a residence there. This it is that 
gives me all the pangs I feel in separation. I con- 
fess I carry this spirit sometimes to the souring the 
pleasures I at present possess. If I go to the opera. 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



19 



where Signora Columba pours out all the mazes 
of melodyj I sit and sigh for Lishoy fireside, and 
Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, from Peg- 
gy Golden. If I climb Flamstead-hill, than where 
nature never exhibited a more magnificent pros- 
pect, I confess it fine, but then I had rather be 
placed on the little mount before Lishoy gate, and 
there take in, to me, the most pleasing horizon in 
nature. Before Charles came hither, my thoughts 
sometimes found refuge from severe studies among 
my friends in Ireland. I fancied strange revolutions 
at home ; but I find it was the rapidity of my own 
motion that gave an imaginary one to objects really 
at rest. No alterations there. Some friends, he 
tells me, are still lean, but very rich ; others very 
fat, but still very poor. Nay, all the news I hear 
of you is, that you and Mrs. Hodson sometimes 
sally out in visits among the neighbours, and some- 
times make a migration from the blue bed to the 
brown. I could from my heart wish that you and 
she, and Lishoy and Ballymahon, and all of you, 
would fairly make a migration into Middlesex; 
though, upon second thoughts, this might be at- 
tended with a few inconveniencies : therefore, as 
the movmtaiii will not come to Mahomet, why Ma- 
homet shall go to the mountain ; or, to speak plain 
English, as you can not conveniently pay me a visit, 
if next summer I can contrive to be absent six 
weeks from London, I shall spend three of them 
■among my friends in Ireland. But first believe me, 
my design is purely to visit, and neither to cut a 
figure nor levy contributions, neither to excite en- 
vy nor solicit favour; in fact, my circumstances are 
adapted to neither. I am too poor to be gazed at, 
and too rich to need assistance. 

"You see, dear Dan, how long I have been 
talking about myself; but attribute my vanity to 
my afiection : as every man is fond of himself, and 
I consider you as a second self, I imagine you will 
consequently be pleased with these instances of 
egotism." 

Goldsmith then alludes to some concerns of a 
private nature, and concludes : 

" My dear sir, these things give me real uneasi- 
ness, and I could wish to redress them. But at 
present there is hardly a kingdom in Europe in 
which I am not a debtor. I have already discharged 
my most threatening and pressing demands, for 
we must be just before we can be grateful. For 
the rest I need not say, (you know I am,) your af- 
fectionate kinsman." 

The medical and Uterary pursuits of our author, 
though productive, at this period, of Uttle emolu- 
ment, gradually extended the sphere of his acquaint- 
ance. Several of his fellow students at Edinburgh 
and DubUn were now resident in London, and, by 
degrees, he continued to renew the intimacy that 
had formerly subsisted between them. Some of 
them occasionally assisted him with their purse, 



and others procured him the notice of the polite 
and the learned. Among the friendsliips thus 
agreeably renewed, there was one with a medical 
character,* afterwards eminent in his profession, 
who used to give the following account of our au- 
thor's first interview with him in London. 

" From the time of Goldsmith's leavmg Edin- 
burgh in the year 1754, I never saw liim tOl the 
year 1756, when I was in London attending the 
hospitals and lectures : early in January he called 
upon me one morning before I was up, and on my 
entering the room I recognised my old acquaint- 
ance, dressed in a rusty fuU trimmed black suit, 
with his pockets full of papers, which instantly re- 
minded me of the poet in Garrick's farce of Lethe. 
After we had finished our breakfast he drew from 
his pocket part of a tragedy, which he said he had 
brought for my correction. In vain I pleaded ina- 
bihty, when he began to read, and every part on 
which I expressed a doubt as to the propriety, was 
immediately blotted out. I then more earnestly 
pressed him not to trust to my judgment, but to 
take the opinion of persons better qualified to de- 
cide on dramatic compositions. He now told me 
that he had submitted his production, so far as he 
had written, to Mr. Richardson, the author of Cla- 
rissa, on which I peremptorily declined offering 
another criticism on the performance. The name 
and subject of the tragedy have unfortunately es- 
caped my memory, neither do I recollect, with ex- 
actness, how much he had written, though I am 
inclined to believe that he had not completed the 
tliird act; I never heard whether he afterwards 
finished it. In this visit, I remember his relating a 
strange GLuixotic scheme he had in contemplation, 
of going to decipher the inscriptions on the Writ- 
ten Mountains, though he was altogether ignorant 
of Arabic, or the language in which they might 
be supposed to be written. The salary of three 
hundred pounds per annvim, wliich had been left 
for the purpose, was the temptation !" 

With regard to the sketch of a tragedy here al- 
luded to, the piece never was completed, nor did he 
afterwards attempt any thing in the same line. 
His project respecting the Written Mountains, 
was certainly an undertaking of a most extrava- 
gant description; but, if we consider how little 
qualified he was for such a task, it can hardly be 
supposed that the scheme ever entered seriously 
into his mind. It was not unusual with hun to 
hazard opinions and adopt resolutions, without 
much consideration, and often without calculating 
the means to the end. " Goldsmith," said Bos- 
well, "had a more than common share of that 
hurry of ideas which we often find in his country- 
men. He was very much what the French call 
un etourdi, and from vanity and an eager desire 



* It is presumed that Dr. Sleigh is meant. 



20 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



of being conspicuous, wherever he was, he fre- 
nuentiy talked carelessly, without knowledge of 
the subject or even without thought." The ex- 
travagant scheme respecting the Written Moun- 
tains, however, seems not to have given way to a 
more rational undertaking at home; and, notwith- 
standing our author's boast, in his letter to Mr. 
Hodson, of being " too rich to need assistance," 
we find him, about this time, induced to relinquish 
his medical practice, and undertake the manage- 
ment of the classical school at Peckham. The 
master, Dr. Milner, having been seized with a se- 
vere illness, was unable to attend to the duties of 
his charge ; and it had been necessary to procure a 
person, of classical attainments, to preside over 
the estabhshment, while deprived of his own sup- 
port. The son of the doctor having studied vdth 
Goldsmith at Edinburgh, knew his abilities as a 
scholar, and recommended him to liis father as a 
person well qualified for the situation. Our aiithor 
accordingly took charge of the school, and acquitted 
himself in the management so much to the satis- 
faction of his employer, that he engaged to procure 
a medical appointment for him under the East In- 
dia Company. Dr. Milner had considerable in- 
fluence with some of the directors, and afterwards 
made good his promise, for, by his means, through 
the interest of the director Mr. Jones, Goldsmith 
was appointed physician to one of the factories in 
India, in the year 1758. 

This appointment seems, for a while, to have 
fiUed the vivid imagination of our author with 
splendid dreams of futurity. The princely fortunes 
.icquired by some individuals in the Indies flattered 
him with the hope of sunilar success ; and accord- 
ingly we find him bending his whole soul to the 
accomplishment of ±his new undertaking. The 
chief obstacle that stood in the way was the ex- 
pense of his equipment for so long a voyage ; but 
his " Present State of Pohte Literature in Europe" 
had been, for some time, preparing for the press ; 
and he seems to have relied that the profits of that 
work would afford the means of enabling him to 
embark. Proposals were immediately drawn up, 
and published, to print the work by subscription. 
These he circulated with indefatigable zeal and 
industry. He wrote to his friends in Ireland to 
promote the subscription in that country, and, in 
the correspondence with them, he evinces the 
greatest anxiety for its success. In the following 
letter he explains his situation and prospects, and 
shows how nmch he had set his heart on the ex- 
pedition to the East. It is without date, but writ- 
ten some time in 1758, or in the early part of 1759, 
and addressed to Mr. Daniel Hodson, his brother- 
in-law. 

"Dear Sie, — You can not expect regularity in 
one who is regular in nothing. Nay, were I forced 
to love yon by rule, I dare venture to say, I could 



never do it sincerely. Take me then with all my 
faults. Let me vvTrite when I please ; for you see I 
say what I please, and am only thinking aloud 
when writing to you. I suppose you have heard 
of my intention of going to the East Indies. The 
place of my destination is one of the factories on 
the coast of Coromandel, and I go in the quality of 
physician and surgeon ; for which the Company has 
signed my warrant, which has already cost me ten 
pounds. I must also pay fifty pounds for my pas- 
sage, and ten pounds for my sea-stores ; and the 
other incidental expenses of my equipment will 
amount to sixty or seventy pounds more. The sa- 
lary is but trifling, viz. one hundred pounds per 
annum ; but the other advantages, if a person be pru- 
dent, are considerable. The practice of the place, 
if I am rightly informed, generally amounts to not 
less than one thousand pounds per annum, for which 
the appointed physician has an exclusive privilege. 
This, with the advantages resulting from trade, 
with the high interest which money bears, viz. 
twenty per cent., are the inducements which per- 
suade me to undergo the fatigues of the sea, the 
dangers of war, and the still greater dangers of the 
climate; which induce me to leave a place where I 
am every day gaining friends and esteem, and 
where I might enjoy aU the conveniencies of life. 
I am certainly wrong not to be contented with what 
I already possess, trifling as it is ; for should I ask 
myself one serious question, What is it I want? — 
what can I answer? My desires are as capricious 
as the big-beUied woman's who longed for a piece 
of her husband's nose. I have no certainty, it is 
true ; but whj' can not I do as some men of more 
merit, who have lived on more precarious terms'? 
Scarron used jestingly to call himself the Marquis 
of Gluenault, which was the name of the booksel- 
ler that employed him; and why may not I assert 
my privilege and quahty on the same pretensions? 
Yet, upon deliberation, whatever airs I give my- 
self on this side of the water, my dignity, I fancy, 
would be evaporated before I reached the other. I 
know you have in Ireland a very indifferent idea of 
a man who vvrrites for bread, though Swift and 
Steele did so intheearhest part of their lives. You 
imagine, I suppose, that every author by profession 
lives in a garret, wears shabby clothes, and con- 
verses wdth the meanest company. Yet I do not 
believe there is one single writer, who has abihties 
to translate a French novel, that does not keep bet- 
ter company, wear finer clothes, and live more gen- 
teely, than many who pride themselves for nothing 
else in Ireland. I confess it again, my dear Dan, 
that nothing but the wildest ambition could prevail 
on me to leave the enjoyment of that refined con- 
versation which I am sometimes permitted to par- 
take in, for uncertain fortune, and paltry show. 
You can not conceive how I am sometimes divided. 
To leave all that is dear to me gives me pain; but 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



21 



wheh I consider I may possibly acquire a genteel 
independence for life; when I thinliof that dignity 
which philosophy claims, to raise itself above con- 
tempt and ridicule; when I think thus, I eagerly 
long to embrace every opportmiity of separating 
myself from the vulgar, as much in my circum- 
stances as I am already in my sentiments. I am 
going to pubUsh a book, for an account of wliich I 
refer you to a letter v/liich I wrote to my brother 
Goldsmith. Circulate for me among your acquaint- 
ance a hundred proposals, which I have given or- 
ders may be sent to you, and if, in pursuance of 
such circulation, you should receive any subscrip- 
tions, let them, when collected, be transmitted to 
Mr. Bradley, who will give a receipt for the same. 



" I know not how my desire of seeing Ireland, 
which had so long slept, has again revived with so 
much ardour. So weak is my temper, and so un- 
steady, that I am frequently tempted, particularly 
when low-spkited, to return home, and leave my 
fortune, though just beginning to look kinder. But 
it shall not be. In five or six years I hope to in- 
dulge these transports. I find I want constitution, 
and a strong steady disposition, wliich alone makes 
men great. I will, however, correct my faults, 
since I am conscious of them." 

The following letter to Edward Mills, Esq. dat- 
ed Temple Exchange Coffee-house, August 7, 
1759, gives the title of the book he was about to pub- 
lish, as stated in the foregoing letter. 

" Dear Sir, — You have quitted, I find, that plan 
of life which you once intended to pm-sue, and given 
up ambition for domestic tranquilhty. "Were I to 
consult your satisfaction alone in this change, I have 
the utmost reason to congratulate youj choice ; but 
when I consider my own, I can not avoid feeling 
some regret, that one of my few friends has declin- 
ed a pursuit in which he had every reason to expect 
success. The truth is, like the rest of the world, I 
am self-interested in my concern; and do not so 
much consider the happiness you have acquired, as 
the honour I have probably lost in the change. I 
have often let my fancy loose when you were the 
subject, and have imagined you gracing the bench, 
or thundering at the bar; while I have taken no 
small pride to myself, and whispered all that I could 
come near, that this was my cousin. Instead of 
this, it seems you are contented to be merely a hap- 
py man; to be esteemed only by your acquaintance ; 
to cultivate your paternal acres; to take unmolested 
a nap under one of your own havW;horns, or in 
Mrs. Mills's bed-chamber, which, even a poet must 
confess, is rather the most comfortable place of the 
two. 

" But, however your resolutions may be altered 
with respect to your situation in life, I persuade my- 
self they are unalterable with regard to your friends 



in it. I can not think the world has taken such 
entire possession of that heart (once so suscep- 
tible of friendship,) as not to have left a corner 
there for a friend or two; but I flatter myself that I 
even have my place among the number. This I 
have a claim to from the similitude of our disposi- 
tions; or, setting that aside, I can demand it as my 
right by the most equitable law in nature, I mean 
that of retaUation; for indeed you have more than 
your share in mine. I am a man of few professions ; 
and yet this very instant I can not avoid the pain- 
ful apprehension, that my present profession (which 
speaks not half my feelings,) should be considered 
only as a pretext to cover a request, as I have a re- 
quest to make. No, my dear Ned, I know you are 
too generous to think so; and you know me too 
proud to stoop to mercenary insincerity. I have a 
request, it is true, to make ; but, as I know to whom I 
am a petitioner, I make it without difBdence or con- 
fusion. It is in short this : I am going to pubhsh a 
book in London, entitled, "An Essay on the pre- 
sent State of Taste and Literature in Europe." 
Every work pubhshed here, the printers in Ireland 
republish there, without giving the author the least 
consideration for his copy. I would in this respect 
disappoint their avarice, and have all the additional 
advantages that may result from the sale of my per- 
formance there to myself. The book is now print- 
mg in London, and I have requested Dr. Radcliff; 
Mr. Lawder, Mr. Bryanton, my brother Mr. Hen- 
ry Goldsmith, and brother-in-law Mr. Hodson, to 
circulate my proposals among their acquaintance. 
The same request I now make to you; and have 
accordingly given directions to Mr. Bradley, book- 
seller in Dame-street, Dublin, to send you a hun- 
dred proposals. Whatever subscriptions, pursuant 
to those proposals, you may receive, when collected, 
may be transmitted to Mr. Bradley, who will give 
a receipt for the money and be accountable for the 
books. I shall not, by a paltry apology, excuse my- 
self for putting you to this trouble. Were I not 
convinced that you found more pleasure in doing 
good-natured things than uneasiness at being em- 
ployed in them, I should not have singled you out 
on this occasion. It is probable you would comply 
with such a request, if it tended to the encourage- 
ment of any man of learning whatsoever ; what then 
may not he expect who has claims of family and 
friendship to enfore his?" 

The same subjects are pursued in another and 
every interesting letter, written in 1759, but subse- 
quent to the foregoing, to his brother, the Rev. 
Henry Goldsmith. 

' Dear Sir, — Your punctuality in answering a 
man whose trade is writing, is more than I had 
reason to expect, and yet you see me generally fill 
a whole sheet, which is all the recompense I can 
make for being so frequently troublesome. The 
behaviour of Mr. Mills and Mr. Lawder is a little 



22 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



extraordinary. However, their answering neither 
you nor me, is a sufficient indication of their dis- 
liking the employment which I assigned them. As 
their conduct is different from what I had expected, 
so I have made an alteration in mine. I shall the 
beginning of next month send over two hundred 
and fifty books,* which are all that I fancy can be 
well sold among you, and I would have you make 
some distinction in the persons who ha-ve subscribed. 
The money, which will amount to sixty pounds, 
may be left with Mr. Bradley as soon as possible. 
I am not certain but I shall quickly have occasion 
for it. I have met with no disappointment with 
respect to my East India voyage, nor are my reso- 
lutions altered ; though at the same time, I must 
confess it gives me some pain to think I am almost 
beginning the world at the age of thirty-one. 
Though I never had a day's sickness since I saw 
you, yet I am not that strong active man you once 
knew me. You scarcely can conceive how much 
eight years of disappointment, anguish, and study, 
have worn me down. If I remember right, you 
are seven or eight years older than me, yet I dare 
venture to say, if a stranger saw us both, he would 
pay me the honours of seniority. Imagine tu your- 
self a pale, melancholy visage, with two great 
wrinkles between the eye-brows, with an eye dis- 
gustingly severe, and a big wig, and you may have 
a perfect picture of my present appearance. On 
the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek 
and healthy, passing many a happy day among 
your own children, or those who knew you a child. 
Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a 
pleasure I have not known. I have passed my days 
among a parcel of cool designing beings, and have 
contracted all their suspicious manner in my own 
behaviour. I should actually be as unfit for the so- 
ciety of my friends at home, as I detest that which 
I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neither 
partake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to 
raise its jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink, 
have contracted a hesitating disagreeable manner 
of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature itself; 
in short, I have thought myself into a settled melan- 
choly, and an utter disgust of all that life brings 
with it. Whence this romantic turn, that all our 
family are possessed with 7 Whence this love for 
every place and every country but that in which we 
.eside? for every occupation but our own 7 This 
desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissi- 
pate? I perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervals 
for indulging this splenetic manner, and following 
my own taste regardless of yours. 

" The reasons you have given me for breeding up 
your son a scholar, are judicious and convincing. 
I should, however, be glad to know for what par- 



• The " Present State of Polite Literature in Europe," sub- 
scription price, Cs. 



ticular profession he is designed. If he be assidu- 
ous, and divested of strong passions, (for passions 
in youth always lead to pleasure.) he may do very 
well in your college; for it must be owned, that the 
industrious poor have good encouragement there, 
perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But 
if he has ambition, strong passions, and an exqui- 
site sensibility of contempt, do not send him there, 
unless you have no other trade for him except your 
own. It is impossible to conceive how much may 
be done by a proper education at home. A boy, for 
instance, who understands perfectly well Latin, 
French, arithmetic, and the principles of the civil 
law, and can write a fine hand, has an education 
that may qualify him for any undertaking. And 
these parts of learning should be carefully incul- 
cated, let him be designed for whatever calling he 
will. Above all things, let him never touch a ro- 
mance or novel ; these paint beauty in colours more 
charming than nature, and describe happiness that 
man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive 
are those pictures of consummate bliss ! They teach 
the youthful mind to sigh after beauty and happi- 
ness which never existed ; to despise the little good 
which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting 
more than she ever gave : and in general, take the 
word of a man who has seen the world, and has 
studied human nature more by experience than 
precept; take my word for it, I say, that books teach 
us -very little of the world. The greatest merit in 
a state of poverty would only serve to make the 
possessor ridiculous ; may distress, but can not re- 
lieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the 
lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These 
afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to prefer- 
ment. Teach, then, my dear sir, to your son thrift 
and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's 
example be placed before his eyes. I had learned 
from books to be disinterested and generous, before 
I was taught from experience the necessity of being 
prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions 
of a philosopher, while I was exposing myself to 
the insidious approaches of cunning ; and often by 
being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to 
excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed my- 
self in the very situation of the wretch who did not 
thank me for my bounty. When I am in the re- 
motest part of the world, tell him this, and perhaps 
he may improve from my example. But I find my- 
self again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking. 
"My mother, I am informed, is almost blind: 
even though I had the utmost inclination to return 
home, under such circumstances I could not; for to 
behold her in distress, without a capacity of reUev- 
ing her from it, would add too much to my splenetic 
habit. Your last letter was much too short; it 
should have answered some queries I made in my 
former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward 
till you have filled all your paper; it requires no 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



23 



thought, at least from the ease with which my own 
sentiments rise when they are addressed to you: 
for, believe me, my head has no share in all I write ; 
my heart dictates the whole. Pray give my love 
to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him, from me, not to 
drink. My dear sir, give me some account about 
poor Jermy.* Yet her husband loves her ; if so, 
she can not be unhappy. 

" I Imow not whether I should tell you — yet why 
should I conceal those trifles, or indeed any thing, 
from you? There is a book of mine will be pub- 
lished in a few days, the life of a very extraordinary 
man — ^no less than the great Voltaire. You know 
already by the title, that it is no more than a catch- 
penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the 
whole performance, for which I received twenty 
pounds. When pubUshed, I shall take some me- 
thod of conveying it to you, unless you may think 
it dear of the postage, which may amomat to four 
or five shilUngs. However, I fear you wiU not find 
an equivalence of amusement. Your last letter, I 
repeat it, was too short; you should have given me 
your opinion ef the design of the heroic-comical 
poem which I sent you : you remember I intended 
to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a pal- 
try alehouse. You may take the following speci- 
men of the manner, which I flatter myself is quite 
original. The room in which he lies, may be de- 
scribed somewhat this way: — 

" The window, patched with paper, lent a ray, 
That feebly show'd the state in which he lay. 
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ^ 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; 
The game of goose was there exposed to view, 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face. 
The mom was cold; he views with keen desire 
A rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; 
An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored, 
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board. 

■" And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the land- 
lord to make his appearance, in order to dun him 
for the reckoning : — ■ 

" Not with that face, so servile and so gay, 
That welcomes every stranger that can pay; 
With sulky eye he smoked the patient man, 
Then puU'd his breeches tight, and thus began, etc. 

" All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a 
good remark of Montaigne's, that the wisest men 
often have friends, with whom they do not care 
how much they play the fool. Talie my present 
follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much 
easier, and more agreeable species of composi- 
tion than prose; and could a man live by it, it 
were no unpleasant employment to be a poet. I 
am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill 
it up only by telling you, what you very well know 

* His youngest sister, who had married unfortunately. 



already, I mean that I am your most affectionate 
friend and brother." 

Notvyithstanding the ardour with which our au- 
thor at first prosecuted his intention of embarking 
for the Indies, we find soon after that he abandon- 
ed the design altogether, and applied himself with 
renewed vigour to hterary pursuits. From what 
particular motive this expedition was given up, has 
never been accurately explained, but most likely it 
was owing to the immediate impracticability of 
raising an adequate sum for his equipment. Per- 
haps, however, abetter reason may be found in the 
rapid change that took place in our author's circum- 
stances about this time, in consequence of the in- 
creased patronage he began to receive from the 
booksellers. No man had the art of displaying 
with more advantage as a writer, whatever Uterary 
acquisitions he had made ; and whatever he put his 
hands to as an author, he finished with such felici- 
ty of thought and purity of expression, that it al- 
most instantly became popular. Hence the booksel- 
lers were soon bound to him from interest, and the 
profits they derived from the ready sale of his pro- 
ductions became the guarantee of his constant em- 
ployment He had by this titae published the 
" Bee, being Essays on the most interesting Sub- 
jects," also Essays and Tales in the British Maga- 
zine, afterwards collected and published in one vol- 
ume, besides various criticisms in the newspapers 
and reviews, all of which were read with avidity by 
the pubUc, and commended by the learned. His 
connexions with literary characters became conse- 
quently still more extended, and his Uterary pros- 
pects were rendered still more flattering; and hence 
we may the more easily account for the change 
that took place in his mind with regard to his In- 
dian appointment. 

Our author's toil in the service of the booksellers 
was now exceedingly laborious. Independent of 
his contributions to newspapers and magazines, he 
wrote regularly for Mr. Griffiths in the Monthly 
Review, from nine till two o'clock every day. His 
friend Dr. Milner had introduced him to Griffiths, 
and tliis work was performed in consequence of a 
written agreement which was to last for a year. 
The remuneration to be given on the part of Mr, 
Griffiths, was board and lodging, and a handsome 
salary; but it is probable Goldsmith found the 
drudgery too irksome, for at the end of seven or 
eight months the agreement was dissolved by mu- 
tual consent. When the " Inquiry into the state 
of PoUte Literature" was published, Mr. Newber- 
ry, the bookseller, who at that time gave great en- 
couragement to men of literary talents, became one 
of our author's chief patrons. For that gentleman 
he was now regxilarly engaged in writing or com- 
piling a variety of minor pieces, and at the same 
time was introduced by his means as a writer in 
the Public Ledger, to which he contributed Chi- 



24 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



nese Letters, afterwards published under the title 
of the " Citizen of the World." 

At this time also, Goldsmith wrote occasionally 
for the British Magazine and Critical Review, con- 
ducted by Dr. Smollett. To that celebrated wri- 
ter he was originally introduced in consequence of 
the taste and accuracy with which he had criticis- 
ed a despicable translation of Ovid's Fasti, by a 
pedantic schoolmaster ; though the intercourse be- 
tween them does not appear to have been kept up 
for any considerable time, yet Goldsmith is said to 
have derived important advantages from the con- 
nexion. It is well knovra. that the liberal soul of 
Smollett made him the friend of every author in 
distress; and it is generally understood that, for 
some time, he warmly interested himself in Gold- 
smith's success. He not only recoromended him 
to the patronage of the most eminent booksellers, 
but introduced him to the notice of the first Uterary 
characters. 

Notwithstanding the variety of our author's lite- 
rary labours, however, no decided improvement in 
his circumstances appears to have taken place till 
after the pubhcation of his " Inqvury" in 1759. 
At that time he had lodgings in Green- Arbour 
Court, Old Bailey; and, that he must have occu- 
pied them rather on principles of economy than 
from the excellence of their accommodation, is 
proved by a little anecdote related by one of his 
literary friends. " I called on Goldsmith, at his 
lodgings," said he, "in March 1759, and found 
him writing his " Inquiry," in a miserable, dirty- 
looking room, in which there was but one chair ; 
and when from civility, he resigned it to me, he 
was himself obhged to sit in the window. While 
we were conversing together some one gently 
tapped at the door, and being desired to come in, 
a poor ragged Uttle girl, of a very becoming de- 
meanour, entered the room, and dropping a cour- 
tesy said, ' my mamma sends her compHments, and 
begs the favour of you to lend her a chamber-pot 
full of coals']' " 

Our author's labours for the booksellers, though 
for some time unproductive of general hterary 
fame, by degrees procured him the more substan- 
tial benefits of good living and commodious lodg- 
ings. He soon acquired extraordinary facUity in 
compilation, and used to boast of the power of his 
pen in this way of procuring money. According- 
ly, as early as 1761, we find him removed from 
Green-Arboiir Court to Wine-Ofiice Court in 
FJeet-street, where he occupied genteel apartments, 
received visits of ceremony, and sometimes gave 
entertainments to his literary friends. 

Among the distinguished characters to whom 
Goldsmith had been lately introduced, and with 
whom he now regularly associated, either from 
similarity of disposition or pursuits, the most re- 
markable in point of eminence was Dr. Johnson. 



To a mind of the highest order, richly and various- 
ly cultivated, Johnson united a warm and gene- 
rous disposition. Similar quaUties, both of the 
head and the heart, were conspicuous in Gold- 
smith; and hence, to use an expression of the 
Rambler himself,, no two men were, perhaps, ever 
better formed to take to one another. The innate 
benevolence of heart which they mutually display- 
ed first drew them together; and so strong was the 
attraction, idtimately increased by respect for each 
other's powers, that their friendship subsisted with- 
out interruption, and with undiminished regard, 
for a period of fourteen years. It has been inju- 
diciously remarked, that this connexion was unfor- 
tunate for the reputation of Goldsmith, and that, 
in the literary circles of the time, " he seldom ap- 
peared but as a foil to the Giant of Words." On 
the contrary, however, the intercourse that subsist- 
ed between these eminent men, would rather ap- 
pear to have been productive of the finest illustra- 
tion of their respective characters; and such was 
the strength of their mutual attachment, that it 
seems to have been the study of each to embellish 
and exalt the character of the other. Besides, 
Johnson was the giant of intellect as well as the 
giant of words, and it is absurd to suppose, that, in 
the display of his extraordinary powers he would 
ever require a foil to heighten their effect. Gold- 
smith, it is true, seemed sometimes, as it were, to 
look up to the great moraUst, but it was rather with 
affection than with dread, more with the spirit of 
emulation than the despair of equal excellence. 
And, on the other hand, in no single instance do 
we find that Johnson ever looked down upon Gold- 
smith as inferior to himself: the reverse, indeed, is 
much more frequently the case; for the uniform 
tendency of his remarks on the genius and writings 
of our author is to hold him up as the brighest lite- 
rary ornament of his time. Long before his fame 
was established with the pubhc, Johnson had justly 
appreciated his talents, and in a conversation with 
Boswell, concluded with asserting, that "Gold- 
smith was one of the first men then existing as an 
author." 

It has not been ascertained by whom Johnson 
and our author were originally introduced to one 
another; but it is generally understood that their 
intimacy commenced in the beginning of 1761. 
On the 31st of May, that year, we find Johnson, 
for the first time, at a supper in Goldsmith's lodg- 
ings, in Wine-Office Court, along with a number 
of literary friends. Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop 
of Dromore, was one of the party invited, and be- 
ing intimate with the great lexicographer, was re- 
quested to call at his chambers and take him along 
with him. When walking together, to the poet's 
lodging, Percy was struck with the imusual 
spruceness of Johnson's appearance in the studied 
neatness of his dress : he had on a new suit of 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



25 



clothes, a new hat, and a wig nicely powdered; 
and in the tout ensemble of his apparel there was 
a degree of smartness, so perfectly dissimilar to his 
ordinary habits and appearance, that it could not 
fail to prompt an inquiry on the part of his compan- 
ion, as to the cause of this transformation. " Why, 
sir," said Johnson, " I hear that Goldsmith, who 
is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of 
cleanliness and decency, quoting my practice, and 
I am desirous this night to show him a better ex- 
ample." 

The connexion betwixt our author and John- 
son was henceforth more closely cemented by dai- 
ly association. Mutual coromunication of thought 
begot mutual esteem, and as their intercourse in- 
creased, their friendship improved. Nothing could 
have been more fortunate for Goldsmith. A man 
of his open improvident disposition was apt to 
stand in need of the assistance of a friend. The 
years, wisdom, and experience of Johnson, ren- 
dered his advice of the highest value, and from 
the kindness and promptitude with which he im- 
dertook and performed good offices, he might al- 
ways be securely rehed on in cases of difficulty 
or distress. It was not long before the improvi- 
dence of our author produced embarrassment in 
his circumstances, and we find the illustrious mo- 
rahst the prompt and affectionate Mentor of his 
imprudent friend. The sums which he was now 
receiving as a writer, might naturally be supposed 
to have been at least equal to his wants, and more 
than sufficient to have kept him out of debt. But 
Goldsmith's affections were so social and generous, 
that when he had money he gave it most hberally 
away. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if 
we find him soon after this period in distress for 
money, and even imder arrest for his rent He 
had just put the finishing stroke to his Vicar of 
Wakefield when the arrest took place, and was 
obUged to send for his friend Johnson to raise mo- 
ney by a sale of the manuscript. 

Our author's situation, on this occasion, hav- 
ing been mis-stated, it may be proper to give an 
authentic detail of it as narrated by Johnson him- 
self. 

"I received one morning a message from poor 
Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it 
was not in his power to come to me, begging that 
I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent 
him a guinea, and promised to come to him direct- 
ly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, 
and fomid that his landlady had arrested him for 
his rent, at which he was in a violent passion ; I 
perceived that he had already changed my guinea, 
and had a bottle of Madeira and a glass before 
him. I put the cork mto the bottle, desired he 
would be calm, and began to talk to him of the 
means by which he might be extiicated. He then 
told me that he had a novel ready for the press, 



which he produced to me. I looked into it, and 
saw its merit ; told the landlady I should soon re- 
tm^; and having gone to a bookseller sold it for 
sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, 
and he discharged his rent, not without rating his 
landlady in a high tone for having used him so 
ill." 

Mr. Newberry was the person with whom 
Johnson thus bargained for the "Vicar of Wake-, 
field." The price agreed on was certainly Uttle 
for a work of such merit ; but the author's name 
was not then conspicuously known to the pubUc, 
and the purchaser took the whole risk on himself 
by pajnng the money down. So unconscious was 
he of the real worth of his purchase, and so little 
sanguine of its success, that he kept the manu- 
script by him for a long time after. Indeed, it was 
not till the author's fame had been fuUy establish- 
ed by the pubhcation of his "Traveller," that the 
publisher ventured to put the "Vicar of Wake- 
field" to the press; and then he reaped the two-fold 
advantage arising from the intrinsic merit of the 
work, and the high character of its author. When 
Boswell some years afterwards, remarked to John- 
son, that there had been too little value given by 
the bookseller on this occasion : "No, sir," said he, 
"the price was sufficient when the book was sold; 
for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been ele- 
vated, as it afterwards was, by his "Traveller;" 
and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit 
by his bargain, that he kept the manuscript by 
liim a long time, and did not publish till after the 
"Traveller" had appeared. Then, to be sin-e, 
it was accidentally worth more money. Had it 
been sold after the "Traveller," twice as much 
money would have been given for it, though sixty 
guineas was no mean price. The bookseller had 
the advantage of Goldsmith's reputation from the 
"Traveller," in the sale, though Goldsmith had it 
not in selling the copy." 

After the sale of this novel, Goldsmith and Mr. 
Newberry became still more closely coimected. 
We find him, in 1763, in lodgings at Canonbury 
House, Islington, where he laboured assiduously 
for that gentleman, in the revisal and correction of 
various publications; particularly, "The Art of 
Poetry," in 2 vols. 12mo; a "Life of Beau Nash," 
the famous king of Bath; a republication of his 
own letters, originally written in the character of 
a Chinese Philosopher, and contributed to the 
Public Ledger, a newspaper of which Kelly was 
at that time the editor. These were now collected 
and given to the public in 2 vols. 12mo, under the 
title of "The Citizen of the World." Of all his 
productions, prompted by necessity, and written on 
the spur of the moment, this collection of letters 
is entitled to the praise of supereminent merit. 
Few works exhibit a nicer perception, or more deli- 
cate delineation of life and manners. Wit, humour, 



as 



LIFE AND WRITmaS 



and sentiment, pervade every page; the vices and 
follies of the day are touched with the most play- 
ful and diverting satire; and EngUsh character- 
istics, in endless variety, are hit off with the pen- 
cil of a master. They have ever maintained their 
currency and reputation, and are ranked among 
the classical productions of the British muse. 

Nearly about the same time, or early in 1764, a 
selection of all his fugitive pieces, originally con- 
tributed to various magazines, were collected and 
published for his own benefit, in one volume, un- 
der the title of "Essays." These, in their general 
scope and tendency bear some analogy to the letters 
of the Cliinese Philosopher. The manner is still 
happier than the matter, though that too is excel- 
lent; and our author appears to have been prompt- 
ed to their repubhcation, in consequence of the hbe- 
ral use that was surreptitiously made of them by 
the magazines, and other fugitive repositories of 
the day. In a humorous preface which accom- 
panied the volume, he took notice of that circum- 
stance, and \'indicates his claim to the merit as 
well as the profit of his own productions. "Most 
of these Essays," said he, "have been regularly 
reprinted two or three times a-year, and conveyed 
to the pubUc through the channel of some engag- 
ing compilation. If there be a pride in multiplied 
editions, I have seen some of my labours sixteen 
times reprinted, and claimed by different parents 
as their own. I have seen them flourished at 
the beginning with praise, and signed at the 
end with the names of Philantos, PhUalethes, Phi- 
laleutheros, and Philanthropos. These gentle- 
men have kindly stood sponsors to my produc- 
tions; and to flatter me more, have always passed 
them as their own. It is time, however, at last to 
vindicate my claims ; and as these entertainers of 
the pubhc, as they call themselves, have partly 
lived upon me for some years, let me now try if I 
can not Hve a httle upon myself. I would desire, 
in this case, to imitate that fat man, whom I have 
somewhere heard of in a shipwreck, who, when 
the sailors, pressed by famine, were taking shces 
from his posteriors to satisfy their hunger, insisted, 
with great justice, on having the first cut for him- 
self." The rapidity with which the first impres- 
sion of this little volume was disposed of, greatly 
surpassed the expectations of its author. Since 
that time, few books have gone through a greater 
variety of editions. 

It has been somewhere remarked, that Gold- 
smith was a plant of slow growth; and perhaps 
there may be some truth in the observation, in so 
far as regards public applause. He had now been 
seven years a writer, and, notwithstanding the va- 
riety of his labours, had produced little, except his 
"Inquiry" and "Citizen of the World," to distin- 
guish him from the herd of authors by profession. 
With the pubhc he was generally known as a 



man of letters, but as such not very remarkably 
distinguished; and it was frequently observed, 
that though his pubhcations were much read, they 
were not greatly talked of With the characteris- 
tic irritability of genius, conscious of its powers 
and jealous of its reward. Goldsmith used to fret 
under the pangs of neglected merit, and to repine 
at the slow progress of public opinion. 

No votary of the muses was ever more emulous 
of fame; and, with his accustomed simplicity, he 
was careless of conceaUng his impatience to ob- 
tain it. Various anecdotes of Ins fretful anxiety 
for applause have been recorded in diiferent pub- 
lications, but the most authentic is one of rather a 
ludicrous description, noticed by Mr. Boswell. 
Conversing with Dr. Johnson one day on the dif- 
ficulty of acquiring literary celebrity, "Ah," said 
he, in a tone of distress, "the public will never do 
me justice; whenever I write any thing, they 
make a point to know nothing about it." On an- 
other occasion, when BosweU was present, "I 
fear," said Goldsmith, "I have come too late into 
the world ; Pope and other poets have taken up 
the places in the temple of Fame, and as a few at 
any period can possess poetical reputation, a man of 
genius can now hardly acquire it." And in the 
same querulous tone of despondency he addresses 
his brother, in the dedication to his "Traveller:" 
' Of all kinds of ambition, as things are now cir- 
cumstanced, perhaps that which pursues poetical 
fame is the wildest. What from the increased re- 
finement of the times, from the diversity of judg- 
ment produced by opposing systems of criticism 
and from the more prevalent divisions of opinion 
influenced by party, the strongest and happiest 
effbrts can expect to please but a very narrow cir- 
cle." A short time, however, proved to our au- 
thor how faUacious were his fears. In less than a 
year the pubUcation of his "Traveller," placed 
him at the head of the poets of his time. 

The outline of this beautiful poem had been 
sketched during our author's residence in Switz- 
erland, and part of it, as noticed in the dedication, 
had been addressed from that country to his brother 
Henry in Ireland. DiSident of its merit, and 
fearful of its success, he kept it by him in its origi- 
nal crude state for several years, and it was not till 
he had been strongly encouraged by the high opin- 
ion expressed of it by Dr. Johnson, that he was at 
last induced to prepare it for the press. For two 
years previous to its publication, while toiling at 
other works for bread, his choicest hours are said 
to have been devoted to the revisal and correction 
of this poem, and, if report may be believed, no po- 
em was ever touched and retouched by its author 
with more painful and fastidious care. When he 
thought at length that it had received the highest 
possible finishing, it was committed to the press, 
and came out early in 1765. It was hailed with 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



27 



delight by all ranlis, celebrity and patronage fol- 
lowed the applause with which it was received, 
and Goldsmith, so far as regarded fame, was at last 
at the height of his ambition. 

The great moral object of the " Traveller" is to 
reconcile man with his lot. The poet maintains 
that happiness is equally distributed among man- 
kind, and that a different good, either furnished by 
nature or provided by art, renders the blessings of 
all nations even. In pursuing his subject he takes 
an imaginary station on the Alps, and passes liis 
view over the countries that he spread out beneath 
him, noticing those only, however, through which 
the author had personally travelled. 

He draws a picture of each in succession, de- 
scribing from his own observation their scenery 
and maimers. He enumerates their advantages, 
and contrasts their various pursuits, — "wealth, 
commerce, honour, liberty, content," — showing that 
each favourite object, when attained, runs into ex- 
cess, and defeats itself by bringing with it its own 
peculiar evil. He proceeds to show, that content- 
ment is more frequently to be found in a meagre 
mountain soil and stormy region, than in a genial 
climate and luxuriant country ; for labour produces 
competence, and custom inures to hardship, while 
ignorance renders the rugged peasant calm and 
cheerful under a life of toil and deprivation. But 
the poet makes a distinction between mere content 
and happiness. If the wants of barren states are 
few, and their vdshes limited, their enjoyments are 
in like manner circumscribed ; for every want be- 
comes a sourcce of pleasure when gratified. Their 
virtues partake also a similar dearth, and their 
morals, like their pleasures, are scanty, coarse, and 
low. 

For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 

Unalter'd, vmimproved, the maimers nm; 

And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 

Fail blunted from each indurated heart. 

Some sterner virtues o'er the momitain's breast 

May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 

But all the gender morals, such as play 

Through life's more cultured vraiks, and charm the way, 

These, far dispersed, on timorous pimons fly, 

To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

The poet comes at length to the conclusion, that 
happiness centres in the mind, that it depends up- 
on ourselves, and is equally to be enjoyed in every 
country and under every government ; for, even in 
regions of tyranny and terror, where unjust laws 
oppress, and cruel tortures are inflicted, these evils 
rarely find their way into the hallowed seclusion of 
a domestic circle. 

In this poem, we may particularly remark a 
quality which distinguishes the writings of Gold- 
smith ; it perpetually presents the author to our 
minds. He is one of the few writers who are in- 
separably identified with their works. "We thinlc 



of him in every page; we grow intimate with him 
as a man, and learn to love him as we read. A 
general benevolence glows throughout this poem. 
It breathes the hberal spirit of a true citizen of the 
world. And yet how beautifully does it inculcate 
and illustrate that local attachment, that preference 
to native land, which, in spite of every disadvan- 
tage of soil or chmate, pleads so eloquently to every 
bosom; which calls out with maternal voice from 
the sandy desert or the stormy rock, appealing ir- 
resistibly to the heart in the midst of foreign luxu- 
ries and delights, and calling the wanderer home. 
When the " Traveller" was pubUshed, Dr. 
Johnson wrote a review of it for one of the journals, 
and pronounced it the finest poem that had appear- 
ed since the time of Pope. T his was no cold praise, 
for the versification of Pope was at that time the 
model for imitation; his rules were the standard of 
criticism, and the " Essay on Man" was placed at 
the head of didactic poetry. The fame of Gold- 
smith was now firmly established; and he had the 
satisfaction to find, that it did not merely rest on 
the authority of the million, for the learned and 
the gi-eat now deemed themselves honoured by his 
acquaintance. 

His poem was frequently the subject of conver- 
sation among the hterary circles of the time, and 
particularly in that circle which used to assemble 
at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. On one oc- 
casion it was remarked among the company at Sir 
Joshua's, that "the 'Traveller' had brought Gold- 
smith into high reputation." — "Yes," said Mr. 
Langton, " and no wonder ; there is not one bad 
line in that poem, not one of Dry den's careless 
verses." 

" Sir Joshua. — I was glad to hear Charles Fox 
say, it was one of the finest poems in the English 
language. 

"Langton. — Why were you glad 7 You sure- 
ly had no doubt of it before. 

" Dr. Johnson. — No : the merit of the " Travel- 
ler," is so well estabUshed, that Mr. Fox's praise 
can not augment it, nor his censure diminish it." 

"Sir Joshua. — But his friends may suspect they 
had too great a partiality for him. 

"Johnson. — Nay, sir, it can not be so; for the 
partiality of his friends was always against him." 
Goldsmith, however, was not permitted to enjoy 
the fame he had acquired without experiencing al- 
so the detraction that generally attends successful 
genius. The envy of some and the jealousy of 
others, especially among the minor candidates for 
poetical fame, was speedily awakened by the ap- 
plause bestowed on his poem. Unable to deny the 
merit of the performance, they strove to detract 
from the merit of its author, by ascribing the chief 
part of it to the friendly muse of Dr. Johnson. 
This question has since been finally settled. In 
the yeai- 1783, Dr. Johnson, at the request of Mr. 



28 



LIFE AND WRIT INQS 



Boswell, marked with a pencil all the lines he had 
furnished, ■which are only line 420th, 

To stop too fearful, and too faint to go ; 

and the concluding ten Uneg, except the last coup- 
let but one, printed in italic. 

How small of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ; 
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find; 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy. 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy, 
Tlie lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
iMke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,' 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 

Johnson added " these are all of which 1 can be 
sure." They bear indeed but a very trifling pro- 
portion to the whole, which consists of four hun- 
dred and thirty-eight verses. The truth in this 
case seems to be, that the report had its origin in 
the avowed fact of the poem having been submit- 
ted to Johnson's friendly revision before it was sent 
to the press. 

Goldsmith, though now universally known and 
admired, and enabled to look forward to indepen- 
dence at home, appears still to have retained a 
strong tincture of his original roving disposition. 
He had long entertained a design of penetrating 
into the interior parts of Asia, to investigate the 
remains of ancient grandeur, learning, and man- 
ners; and when Lord Bute became prime minister 
at the accession of George the Third, this desire 
was more strongly excited by the hope of obtain- 
ing some portion of the royal boimty, then so Ube- 
rally dispensed by that nobleman in pensions and 
benefactions to men of learning and genius. That 
he might be enabled to execute this favourite pro- 
ject he resolved on making a direct application to 
the premier for pecuniary assistance, and the sanc- 
tion of Govermnent, but, the better to ensure suc- 
cess, he previously drew up and pubhshed in the 
Pubhc Ledger, an ingenious essay on the subject, 
in which the advantages of such a mission were 
stated with much ability and eloquence. Our poor 
author, however, was then but little known, and 
not having distinguished himself by any popular 
hterary effort, his petition or memorial was throvsm 



* Gtoldsmith in this couplet mentions Luke as a person well 
known, and supeiUcial readers have passed it over quite 
smoothly; while those of more attention have been as much 
perplexed hy Luke, as by Lydiat in "The Vanity of Human 
Wishes." The truth is, that Goldsmith himself was in a mis- 
take. In the "Respublica Hungarica," there is an accoimt 
of a desperate rebelhon in the year 1514, headed by two bro- 
thers of the name of Zeck, George and Luke. When it was 
quelled, George, and not Luke, was punished, by his head 
being encircled with a red hot iron crown: Corona cande- 
scente ferrea coronatur. The same severity of torture was 
exercised on the Earl of Athol, one of the mm-derers of James 
I, of Scotland. 



aside unnoticed or neglected. Perhaps it was for- 
tunate for hterature that it so happened. Gold- 
smith, with all his genius and taste as a writer, 
was but Uttle versed in the arts; and it is extreme- 
ly questionable whether he was quahfied to accom- 
plish the task which he had proposed to himself, 
The opinion of his friend, Dr. Johnson, who so 
well knew and appreciated the extent of his ac- 
quirements, may be given as decisive of such a 
question. In a conversation with Mr. Boswell, 
the latter remarked, that our author " had long a 
visionary prospect of some time or other going to 
Aleppo, when his cirCxunstances should be easier, 
in order to acquire a knowledge, as far as might be, 
of any arts peculiar to the East, and introduce them 
into Britain;" to which Johnson rejoined, " of all 
men. Goldsmith is most unfit to go out on such an 
inquiry ; for he is yet ignorant of such arts as we 
ourselves already possess, and consequently could 
not know what would be accessions to our present 
stock of mechanical knowledge: sir, he would 
bring home a grinding-barrow, and think he had 
furnished a wonderful improvement." Goldsmith, 
however, seems never to have been conscious of 
the deficiency of his own powers for such an mi- 
dertaking. His passion for travel was never ex- 
tinguished; and notwithstanding the neglect with 
which Iris application for ministerial patronage had 
been treated, his design of penetrating to the East 
frequently revived. Even after the publication of 
the " Traveller," as formerly remarked, though en- 
gaged in several literary undertakings, this design 
was still predominant; and had it not been for his 
characteristic simphcity or carelesness, or perhaps 
his propensity to practical blundering, an opportu- 
nity was now thrown in his way that might have 
enabled him to fulfil his most sanguine expecta- 
tions. 

Among the distinguished characters of the day 
which the merit of the " Traveller," had attached 
to its author, either as patrons or friends. Lord 
Nugent (afterwards Earl of Clare) was conspicu- 
ous in point of rank ; and his lordship, not satisfied 
with his own personal iiotice and friendship, warm- 
ly recormnended him to his friends in power, par- 
ticularly to the Earl (afterwards Duke) of North- 
umberland, then lord-heutenant of Ireland. That 
nobleman, on the recommendation of Lord Nu- 
gent, had read several of Goldsmith's productions, 
and being charmed with the elegance of their style, 
expressed a desire to extend liis patronage to their 
author. After his lordship's retmn from Ireland, 
in 1765, he communicated Ms intentions to Dr. 
Percy, who was related to the family of Northum- 
berland, and by his means an interview took place 
between the poet and the peer. Of this visit to 
his lordship, Goldsmith used to give the following 
account: "I was invited by my friend Percy to 
wait upon the duke, in consequence of the satis- 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



2? 



faction he had received from the perusal of one of 
my productions. I dressed myself in the best man- 
ner I could, and after studying some compliments 
I thought necessary on such an occasion, proceed- 
ed to Northumberland-house, and acquainted the 
servants tliat I had particular business with the 
duke. They shov^ed me into an ante-chamber, 
where, after waiting some time, a gentleman very 
elegantly dressed made his appearance. Taking 
him for the duke, I deUvered all the fine things I 
had composed, in order to compliment him on the 
honom* he had done me; when, to my great aston- 
ishment, he told me I had mistaken him for his mas- 
ter, who would see me inmiediately. At that in- 
stant the duke came into the apartment, and I was 
so confounded on the occasion, that I wanted words 
barely siifficient to express the sense I entertained 
of the duke's politeness, and went away exceedingly 
chagrined at the blunder I had committed. 

In the embarrassment which ensued from this 
awkward mistake, our author's eastern project, for 
which he had iirtended to have solicited ,his lord- 
ship's patronage, was totally forgotten, and the 
visit appears to have been concluded vsdthout even 
a hint as to this great object of his wishes. 

Sir John Hawkins, in his "Life of Dr. John- 
son," has noticed and commented on the circum- 
stances attending this interview, with peevishness 
and ill-humour. " Having one day," says he, " a 
call to wait on the late Duke, then Earl of North- 
umberland, I found Goldsmith waiting for an au- 
dience in an outer room: I asked him what had 
brought him there; he told me, an invitation from 
his lordship. I made my business as short as I 
could, and as a reason, mentioned that Dr. Gold- 
smith was waiting without. The earl asked me 
if I was acquainted with him? I told him I was, 
adding what I thought was likely to recommend 
him. I retired, and stayed in the outer room to 
take him home. Upon his coraing out, I asked 
him the result of this conversation. " His lord- 
ship," said he, " told me he had read my poem, 
meaning the ' Traveller,' and was much delighted 
with it; that he was going lord-lieutenant to Ire- 
land, and that, hearing I was a native of thatcomi- 
try, he should be glad to do me any kindness." 
" And what did you answer," asked I, " to this 
gracious oflFerl" — " "Why," said he, " I coiild say 
nothing but that I had a brother there, a clergy- 
man, that stood in need of help : as for myself, I 
have no dependence on the promises of great men; 
I look to the booksellers for support; they are my 
best friends, and I am not inclined to forsake them 
for others."—" Thus," contuiues Sir John, " did 
this idiot in the affaii-s of the world trifle with his 
fortmies, and put back the hand that was held out 
to assist him!" — In a worldly point of view, the 
conduct of Goldsmith on this occasion was un- 
doubtedly absurd; but those who have generous 



dispositions will be pleased with such a character- 
istic instance of his well-knovra simphcity and 
goodness of heart. A benevolent mind will dis- 
cover in the recommendation of a brother, to the 
exclusion of himself, a degree of disinterestedness,, 
which, as it is seldom to be met with, is the more to 
be admired. 

Though Goldsmith thus lost the only good op- 
portunity that had offered for obtaining Govern- 
ment patronage for his intended eastern expedi- 
tion, it must be admitted to the honour of the Duke 
of Northumberland, that when the plan was after- 
wards explained to him at a distant period, he ex- 
pressed his regret that he had not been n\iade ac- 
quainted with it earlier; for he could at once have 
placed the poet on the Irish estabhshment, with a 
sufficient salary to enable liim to prosecute his re- 
searches, and would have taken care to have had 
it continued to him during the whole period of his 
travels. From this time our poet, though he some- 
times talked of his plan, appears to have for ever 
relinquished the design of travelling into Asia. 

Independent of every consideration of interest or 
ambition, the introduction of Goldsmith to a noble- 
man of such high rank as the Earl of Northiun- 
berland, was a circumstance sufficiently gratifying 
to a mind fond of distinction. In fact, the vanity 
of our poet, was greatly excited by the honour of 
the interview with his lordship : and, for a consider- 
able time after, it was much the subject of allusion 
and reference in his conversation. One of those 
ingenious executors of the law, a bailiff", having 
come to the knowledge of this circumstance, deter- 
mined to turn it to his advantage in the execution 
of a writ which he had against the poet for a small 
debt. He wrote Goldsmith a letter, stating, that 
he was steward to a nobleman who was charmed 
with reading his last production, and had ordered 
him to desire the doctor to appoint a place where 
he might have the honour of meeting him, to con- 
duct him to his lordship. Goldsmith swallowed 
the bait without hesitation; he appointed the Bri- 
tish Coffee-house, to which he was accompanied 
by his friend Mr. Hamilton, the proprietor and 
printer of the Critical Review, who in vain remon- 
strated on the singularity of the appUcation. On 
entering the coffee-room, the bailiff paid his re- 
spects to the poet, and desu'ed that he might have 
the honour of immediately attending him. They 
had scarcely entered Pall-Mali on their way to his 
lordship, when the bailiff produced his writ, to the 
infinite astonishment and chagrin of our author. 
Mr. Hamilton, however, immediately interfered, 
generously paid the money, and redeemed the poet 
from captivity. 

Soon after the publication of the " Traveller," 
Goldsmith appears to have fixed his abode in the 
Temple, where he ever afterwards resided. His 
apartments were first in the Ubrary staircase, next 



so 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



m the King's-Bench-walk, and ultimately at No. 2, 
in Brick-court. Here he had chambers in the first 
floor, elegantly furnished, and here he was often 
visited by literary friends, distinguished aUke by 
their rank, talents, and acquirements. In the num- 
ber of those with whom he now associated, and 
could rank among his friends, he was able to ex- 
hibit a list of the most eminent and conspicuous 
men of the time, among whom may be particu- 
larized the names of Burke, Fox, Johnson, Percy, 
Reynolds, Garrick, Colman, Dyer, Jones, Boswell, 
and Beauclerk, with the Lords Nugent and Charle- 
mont. The mention of these names naturally calls 
up the recollection of the famous Literary Club of 
which Goldsmith was one of the earliest members, 
and of which the conversational anecdotes, re- 
ported by Mr. Boswell, have contributed to give so 
much interest to the pages of that gentleman's bi- 
ography of Johnson. As our author continued a 
member of this select society from its foundation till 
his death, and shone as one of its most conspicuous 
ornaments, some account of its institution, and a 
notice of the names of its members till the present 
time, all of whom have more or less figured in the 
literary or political world, may not be unacceptable 
to many of our readers. 

This literary association is said by Mr. Boswell 
to have been founded in 1764, but Dr. Percy is of 
opinion that its institution was not so early. Sir 
Joshua Reynolds had the merit of being the first to 
suggest it to Dr. Johnson and Mr. Burke; and they 
having acceded to the proposal, the respective friends 
of these three were invited to join them. The ori- 
ginal members, therefore, as they stand on the re- 
cords of the society, were Sir Joshua Reynolds,* 
Dr. Johnson, Mr. Edmund Burke, Dr. Nugent,+ 
Mr. Beauclerk, Mr. Langton, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. 
Chamier, and Sir John Hawkins ; and to this num- 
ber there was added soon afterwards Mr. Samuel 
Dyer.t It existed long without a name, but at the 



* Neither Sir Joshua nor Sir John Hawkins had then been 
knighted, nor had Johnson been presented with his diploma 
of LL. D. ; but both here and on other occasions the parties are 
noticed by their most common appellations. 

t This gentleman was a physician, father of Mr. Burke's 
wife ; not the Dr. Nugent who published some volumes of tra- 
vels, and several philosophical worte, for whom he has been 
sometimes mistaken. The above Dr. Nugent was a very 
amiable man, and highly respected by his contemporaries. 

J This gentleman was one of the intimate friends of Mi. 
Burke, who inserted in the public papers the following cha- 
racter of him at the time of his death, which happened on 
Monday, September 14, 1772 : 

" On Monday evening died at his lodgings in Castle-street, 
Leicester Fields, Samuel Dyer, Esq., Fellow of the Royal So- 
ciety. He was a man of profound and general erudition ; and 
his sagacity and judgment were fully equal to the extent of his 
learning. His mind was candid, sincere, benevolent; his 
friendship disinterested and unalterable. The modesty, sim- 
plicity, and sweetness of his manners, rendered his conversa- 
tbn as amiable as it was instructive, and endeared him to 



funeral of Mr. Garrick, became distinguished by 
the title of the Literary Club. The members met 
and supped together one evening in every week,, at 
the Turk's Head, in Gerrard street, Soho. Their 
meetings commenced at seven ; and by means of 
the inexhaustible conversational powers of Johnson, 
Burke, and Beauclerk, their sittings were generally 
protracted till a pretty late hour. It was originally 
intended that the number of members should be 
made up to twelve, but for the first three or four 
years it never exceeded nine or ten; and it was un- 
derstood that if even only two of these should chance 
to meet, they would be able to entertain one another 
for the evening. 

About the beginning of 1768, the attending or 
efficient members were reduced to eight ; first by 
the secession of Mr. Beauclerk, who became es- 
tranged by the gayer attractions of more fashiona- 
ble clubs; and next by the retirement of Su* John 
Hawkins. 

Soon eifter this it was proposed by Dr. Johnson 
to elect a supply of new members, and to make up 
their number to twelve, the election to be made by 
ballot, and one black ball to be sufficient for the ex- 
clusion of a candidate. The doctor's proposal was 
immediately carried into effect by the election of Sir 
Robert Chambers, Dr. Percy, and the late George 
Colman; and these three were introduced as new 
members on Monday evening, February 15, 1768. 
Mr. Beauclerk having desired to be restored to the 
society, was re-elected about the same time. 

From this period till 1772 the club consisted of 
the same members, and its weekly meetings were 
regularly continued every Monday evening till De- 
cember that year, when the night of meeting was 
altered to Friday. Shortly afterwards there were 
no less than four vacancies occasioned by death. 
These were supplied, first by the Earl of Charle- 
mont and David Garrick, who were elected on the 
12th of March, 1773 ; and next by Mr. (afterwards 
Sir WilUam) Jones and Mr. Boswell, the former 
of whom was elected on the 2d, and the latter on 
the 30th of April following. In adverting to the 
election of Mr. Garrick, it may not be deemed im- 
pertinent to notice an error on the part of Sir John 
Hawkins, in his " Life of Johnson." Speaking 
of that gentleman's wish to become a member of 
the club, "Garrick," says the knight, "trusted that 
the least intimation of a desire to come among us 
would procure him a ready admission; but in this 
he was mistaken. Johnson consulted me upon it ; 

those few who had the happiness of knowing intimately that 
valuable unostentatious man ; and his death is to them a loss 
irreparable." 

Mr. Dyer was held in high estimation for his erudition by 
Dr. Johnson, but we know not of any literaiy work in which 
he was concerned, except that he corrected and improved the 
translation of Plutarch's Lives, by Dryden and others, when 
it was revived by Tonson. 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



31 



and when I could find no objection to receiving 
him, exclaimed, " he will disturb us by his buf- 
foonery!" and afterwards so managed matters, that 
he was never formally proposed, and by conse- 
quence never admitted. 

In justice both to Mr. Garrick and Dr. Johnson, 
Mr. Boswell has rectified this mis-statement. " The 
truth is," says he, "that not very long after the in- 
stitution of our club, Sir Joshua Reynolds was 
speaking of it to Garrick: ' I like it much (said the 
latter); I think I shall be of you.' When Sir 
Joshua mentioned this to Dr. Johnson, he was 
much displeased with the actor's conceit. 'He'll 
be of lis (said Johnson), how does he know we will 
permit him"? The first duke in England has no 
right to hold such language.' However, when 
Garrick was regularly proposed some time after- 
wards, Johnson, though he had taken a momentary 
offence at his arrogance, warmly and kindly sup- 
ported him; and he was accordingly elected, was a 
most agreeable member, and contmued to attend 
our meetings to the time of his death." This state- 
ment, while it corrects the inaccuracy of Sir John, 
affords also a proof of the estimation in which the 
Literary Club was held by its own members, and the 
nicety that might be opposed to the admission of a 
candidate. The founders appear to have been 
somewhat vain of the institution, both as unique in 
its kind, and as distinguished by the learning and 
talent of its members. Dr. Johnson, in particular, 
seems to have had a sort of paternal anxiety for its 
prosperity and perpetuation, and on many occasions 
exhibited almost as jealous a care of its purity and 
reputation as of his own. Talking of a certain 
lord one day, a man of coarse manners, but a man 
of abilities and information, "I don't say," con- 
tinued Johnson, "he is a man I would set at the 
head of a nation, though perhaps he may be as 
good as the next prime minister that comes : but he 
is a man to be at the head of a club, I don't say our 
club, for there is no such dub." On another oc- 
casion, when it was mentioned to him by Mr. 
Beauclerk that Dr, Dodd had once wished to be a 
member 'of the club, Johnson observed, " I should 
be sorry indeed if any of our club were hanged," 
and added, jocularly, " I will not say but some of 
them deserve it," alluding to their politics and re- 
ligion, which were frequently in opposition to his 
own. But the high regard in which the doctor 
held this association was most strikingly evinced in 
the election of Mr. Sheridan. In return for some 
literary civilities received from that gentleman while 
he had as yet only figured as a dramatist, Johnson 
thought the finest comphment he could bestow would 
be to procure his election to the Literary Club. 
When the ballot was proposed, therefore, he ex- 
erted his influence, and concluded his recommenda- 
tion of the candidate by remarking, that " he who 
has written the two best comedies of his age, is 



surely a considerable man." Sheridan had accord- 
ingly the honour to be elected. The importance 
thus attached by its members to this celebrated 
club, seems justified by time and public opinion. 
No association of a like kind has existed, and re- 
tained its original high character, for so long a pe- 
riod; and none has ever been composed of men s& 
remarkable for extraordinary talent. 

In 1774, an accession of new members was add-- 
ed by the election of the Hon. Charles James Fox, 
Sir Charles Bunbury, Dr. George Fordyce, and 
George Steevens, Esq.; and this brings the annals 
of the club down to the death of Goldsmith. Either 
then, or soon after, the number of the members was 
increased to thirty; and, in 1776, instead of sup- 
ping once aweek, they resolved to dine together 
once a-fortnight during the sitting of Parliament; 
and now the meetings take place every other Tues- 
day at Parsloe's, in St. James' s-street. It is beUev- 
ed, that this increase in the number of the mem- 
bers, originally limited to twelve, took place in con- 
sequence of a suggestion on the part of our author. 
Conversing with Johnson and Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds one day, Goldsmith remarked, " that he wish- 
ed for some additional members to the Literary 
Club, to give it an agreeable variety; for (said he) 
there can be nothing new among us ; we have tra- 
velled over one another's minds." Johnson, how- 
ever, did not like the idea that his mind could ba 
travelled over or exhausted, and seemed rather dis- 
pleased; but Sir Joshua thought Goldsmith in the 
right, observing, that "where people have Hved a 
great deal together, they know what each of them 
will say on every subject. A new understanding, 
therefore, is desirable ; because, though it may only 
furnish the same sense upon a question which 
would have been furnished by those vsdth whom we 
are accustomed to live, yet this sense will have a 
different colouring, and colouring is of much effect 
in every thing else as well as painting."* 



From the institution of the Literary Club to the present 
time, it is believed that the following is a correct list of the 
members: — 



* Lord Ashburton (Dunning.) 

* Sir Joseph Banks. 

* Marquis of Bath. 

* Dr. Barnard, Bishop of Kila- 
loe. 

* Mr. Topham Beauclerk. 
Sir Charles Blagden. 

*Mr. Boswell. 

* Sir Charles Bimbury. 

* Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

* Richard Burke (his son. ) 

* Dr. Bumey. 
Sir Robert Chambers. 
Mr. Chamier. 

' Earl of Charlemont. 

* George Colman. 
Mr. Courtney. 



Dr. Douglas, Bishop of Salis. 
bury. 
"Mr. Dyer. 

* Lord Elliot. 

* Rev. Dr. Farmer. 

* Dr. George Fordyce. 

• Right Hon. C. J. Fox. 

* David Garrick. 
"Mr. Gibbon. 

' Dr. Goldsmit^. 

• Sir William JIamilton. 
' Sir John Hawkins. 

• Dr. Hinchliffe, Bishop of Pe- 

tferbgrough. 

* Df. Johnson. >» ■ < 

• Sir WiUiam Jona 

• Mr. Langton. 



32 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



In a society thus composed of men distinguished 
for genius, learning, and rank, where the chief ob- 
ject of the institution was social and literary enjoy- 
ment, it is certainly interesting to know what kind 
of intellectual sauce was usually served up to give a 
zest to their periodical suppers. Happily, Mr/ 
Boswell has supplied such a desideratum ; and as a 
fair specimen of the numerous conversations which 
he has reported of the members, it may not be un- 
amusing to our readers to be presented with part of 
the discussion which took place at the time of his 
own election in April, 1773, and a full report of 
the sitting of the club on the 24th of March, 1775. 
This we do with the more pleasure, on account of 
the first discussion being in some sort illustrative of 
the character and writings of om* author. 

" On Friday, April 30," says Mr. Boswell, " I 
dined with Dr. Johnson at Mr. Beauclerk's, where 
were Lord Charlemont, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and 
some more members of the Literary Club, whom he 
had obligingly invited to meet me, as I was this 
eveiung to be balloted for as candidate for admission 
into that distinguished society. Johnson had done 
me the honour to propose me, and Beauclerk was 
very zealous for me. 

" Goldsmith being mentioned, Johnson said, ' It 
is amazing how little Goldsmith knows. He sel- 
dom comes where he is not more ignorant than any 
one else,' Sir Joshua Reynolds, ' Yet there is no 
man whose company is more Uked.' Johnson, ' To 
be sure, sir. When people find a man, of the most 
distinguished abilities as a writer, their inferior 
while he is with them, it must be highly gratifying 
to them. What Goldsmith comically says of him- 



' Duke of Leeds. 
' Earl Lucan. 

• Earl Macartney. 

• Mr. Malone. 

Dr. Marlay, Bishop of Clon- 
fert. 

• Dr. Nugent. 

Hon. Frederick North (now 
Earl of Guilford.) 

• Earl of Upper Ossory. 
•Viscount Pcdmerston. 

*Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dro- 
more. 
Major RenneL 

• Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

Sir W. Scott Cnow Lord Sto- 

well) 
•M.R. B.Sheridan. 
' Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St. 

Asaph. 

• Dr. Adam Smith. 
Earl Spencer. 
William Lock, jun, 
Mr. George Ellis. 



Lord Minto. 

* Dr. French Lawrence. 
*Dr. Horsley, Bishop of St 

Asaph. 
Henry Vaughan, M. D. 
' Mr. George Steevens. 

* Mr. Agmendesham Vesey. 

* Dr. Warren. 

*Dr. Joseph Warton. 

* Rev. Thomas Warton. 

* Right Hon. William Wind- 

ham. 
Right Hon. George Canning. 
Mr. Marsden. 
Right Hon. J. H. Frere. 
Right Hon. Tlios. Grenville. 
*Rev. Dr. Vincent, Dean of 

Westminster. 
Right Hon. Sir William 

Grant, Master of the Rolls. 
Sir George Staunton. 
Mr. Charles Wilkins. 
Right Hon. William Drum- 

mond. 



The members whose names are distinguished by an asterisk 
in the foregoing list have all paid the debt of nature. Among 
those who survive, it is generally understood that the spirit of 
the original association is still preserved. 



self is very true, he always gets the better when he 
argues alone : meaning, that he is master of a sub- 
ject in his study, and can wiite well upon it; but 
when he comes into company grows confused, and 
unable to talk. Take him as a poet, his " Travel- 
ler" isa very fine performance; ay, and so is his 
"Deserted Village," were it not sometimes too 
much the echo of his " Traveller." Whether, in- 
deed, we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or 
as a historian, he stands in the first class.' Boswell, 
' A historian! my dear sir, you will not surely rank 
his compilation of the Roman History with the 
works of other historians of tliis age'?" Johnson, 
' Why, who is before him?' Boswell, ' Hume, Ro- 
bertson, Lord Lyttleton,' Johnson (his antipathy 
to the Scotch beginning to rise,) ' I have not read 
Hmne; but, doubtless. Goldsmith's History is bet- 
ter than the verbiage of Robertson, or the foppery 
of Dalrymple.' Boswell, ' Will you not admit the 
superiority of Robertson, in whose History we find 
such penetration, such painting?" Johnson, ' Sir, 
you must consider how that penetration and that 
painting are employed. It is not history; it is ima- 
gination. He who describes what he never saw, 
draws from fancy. Robertson paints minds as 
Sir Joshua paints faces in a history-piece : he ima- 
gines a heroic countenance. You must look upon 
Robertson's work as romance, and try it by that 
standard. History it is not. Besides, sir, it is the 
great excellence of a writer to put into his book as 
much as his book will hold. Goldsmith has done 
this in his History. Now Robertson might have 
put twice as much into his book. Robertson is 
like a man who has packed gold in wool : the wool 
takes up more room than the gold. No, sir, I al- 
ways thought Robertson would be crushed by his 
own weight — would be buried under his own orna- 
ments. Goldsmith tells you shortly aU you want 
to know; Robertson detains you a great deal too 
long. No man will read Robertson's cimibrous de- 
tail a second time; but Goldsmith's plain narrative 
vyill please again and again. I would say to Ro- 
bertson what an old tutor of a college said to one of 
his pupils: "Read over your compositions and 
wherever you meet with a passage which you think 
is particularly fine, strike it out." Goldsmith's 
abridgment is better than that of Lucius Florus or 
Eutropius : and I vpill venture to say, that if you 
compare him with Vertot, in the same places of the 
Roman History, you will find that he excels Vertot. 
Sir, he has the art of compiling, and of sajang every 
thing he has to say in a pleasing manner. He is 
now writing a Natural History, and will make it as 
entertaining as a Persian Tale.' 

" I can not dismiss the present topic (continues 
Mr. Boswell) without observing, that Dr. Johnson, 
who owned that he often talked for victory, rather 
urged plausible objections to Dr. Robertson's ex- 
cellent historical works in the ardour of contesl^ 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



33 



than expressed his real and decided opinion; for 
it is npt easy to suppose, that he should so widely 
differ from the rest of the literary world. 

"Johnson, 'I remember once being with Gold- 
smith in Westminster Abbey. While we sur- 
veyed the Poet's-Corner, I said to him, — 

Forsitan et nostrum nomen noiscebitur istis,* 

When we got to Temple-Bar he stopped me, 
pomted to the heads upon it, and shly whispered 
me, — 

I'orsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis.'t 

"Johnson praised John Bunyan highly. 'His 
"Pilgrim's Progress" has great merit, both for in 
vention, imagination, and the conduct of the story 
and it has had the best evidence of it^ merits, the 
general and continued approbation of manldnd 
Few books, I believe, have had a more extensive 
sale. It is remarkable, that it begins very much 
like the poem of Dante ; yet there was no trans- 
lation of Dante when Bunyan wrote. There is 
reason to think that he had read Spenser." 

"A proposition which had been agitated, that 
monmnents to eminent persons should, for the 
time to come, be erected in St. Paul's Church as 
well as in the Westminster Abbey, was mention- 
ed; and it was asked, who should be honoured by 
having his monument first erected 1 Somebody 
suggested Pope. Johnson, 'Why, sir, as Pope was 
a Roman Catholic, I would not have his to be 
first. I think Milton's rather should have the pre- 
cedence. I think more highly of him now than I 
did at twenty. There is more thinking in liim 
and Butler than in any one of our poets.' 

"The gentlemen (continues Mr. Boswell) now 
went away to their club, and I was left at Beau- 
clerk's till the fate of my election should be an- 
nounced to me. I sat in a state of anxiety, which 
even the charming conversation of Lady Di 
Beauclerk could not entirely dissipate. In a short 
time I received the agreeable intelligence that I 
was chosen. I hastened to the place of meeting, 
and was introduced to such a society as can sel- 
dom be found. Mr. Edmund Burke, whom I 
then saw for the first time, and whose splendid ta- 
lents had long made me ardently wish for his ac- 
quaintance; Dr. Nugent, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Gold- 
smith, Mr. (afterwards Sir Wilham) Jones, and the 
company with whom I had dined. Upon my en- 
trance, Johnson placed himself behind a chair, on 
which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and, 
with humourous fonnality, gave me a charge, 
pointing out the conduct expected from me as a 
member of this club." 

The next conversational specimen given by Mr. 



• Orid, de Art. Aynand. 1. iii. 5. 13. 

tin allusion to Dr. Johnson's supposed^ political principles, 
and perhaps his own. E. 

3 



Boswell, is of the discussion which took place at 
the meeting of 24th March, 1775. "Before John- 
son came in, we talked of his 'Journey to the Wes- 
tern Islands,' and of his coming away 'willing to 
believe the second sight,' which seemed to excite 
some ridicule. I was then so unpressed with the 
truth of many of the stories of which I had been 
told, that I avowed my conviction, saying 'He is 
only willing to believe ; I do believe. The evidence 
is enough for me, though not for his great mind. 
What will not fiU a quart bottle will fill a pint bot- 
tle. I am filled with behef ' 'Are you,' said Col- 
man, 'then cork it up.' 

"I found his 'Journey' the common topic of 
conversation in London at this time, wherever I 
happened to be. At one of Lord Mansfield's for- 
mal Sunday evening conversations, strangely call- 
ed levees, his Lordship addressed me, 'We have 
all been reading your Travels, Mr. Boswell.' I an- 
swered, 'I was but the humble attendant of Dr. 
Johnson.' The Chief- Justice replied, with that 
air and manner which none who ever lieard or 
saw him can forget, 'He spealis ill of nobody but 
Ossian.' 

"Johnson was in high spirits this evening at 
tlie club, and talked ^\^th great animation and 
success. He attacked Swift, as he used to do upon 
all occasions: "The Tale of a Tub" is so much su- 
perior to liis other writirgs, that we can hardly 
believe he was the author of it : there is in it such 
a vigour of mind, such a swarm of thoughts, so 
much of nature, and art, and life.' I wondered to 
hear him say of 'Gulliver's Travels,' 'When 
once you have thought of big and httle men, it is 
very easy to do all the rest.' I endeavoured to 
make a stand for Swift, and tried to rouse those 
who were much more able to defend him ; but in 
vain. Johnson at last, of his own accord, allowed 
very great merit to the inventory of articles found 
in the pocket of 'the Man Mountain,' particular- 
ly the description of his v/atch, which it was con- 
jectured was his god, as he consulted it upon all 
occasions. He observed, that 'Swift put his name 
but to two things (after he had a name to put), 
the "Plan of the Improvement of the Enghsh 
Language," and the last "Drapier's Letters.'" 

"From Swift there was an easy transition to 
Mr. Thomas Sheridan. Johnson, 'Sheridan is a 
wonderful admirer of the tragedy of Douglas, ano 
presented its author with a gold medal. Some 
years ago, at a Coffee-house in Oxford, I called to 
him "Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Sheridan, how came you 
to give a gold medal to Home, for writing that 
foolish play?" This, you see, was wanton and in- 
solent; but I meant to be wanton and insolent. 
A medal has no value but as a stamp of merit. 
And was Sheridan to assume to himself the right of 
giving that stamp? If Sheridan was magnificent 
enough to bestow a gold medal as an honorary re- 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



ward of dramatic excellence, he should have re- 
quested one of the universities to choose the per- 
son on whom it should be conferred. Sheridan 
had no right to give a stamp of merit: it was 
counterfeiting Apollo's coin.' " 

Now that Goldsmith had acquired fame as a 
poet of the first ranlc, and was associated with 
the wit and talent that belonged to this cele- 
brated club, his publisher, Mr. Newberry, thought 
he might venture to give the "Vicar of Wakefield" 
to the world. It was accordingly brought out in 
1766, and not only proved a most lucrative specu- 
lation for the bookseller, but brought a fresh ac- 
cession of Uterary celebrity to its author. Notwith- 
standing the strUdng merit of this work, it is a 
fact not less singular than true, that the literary 
friends to whom Goldsmith submitted it for criti- 
cism, before publication, were divided in opinion as 
to the probability of its success ; and it is still more 
singular that Dr. Johnson himself should have en- 
tertained doubts on the subject. It has been as- 
serted, that the publisher put it to press in the 
crude state in which he found it, when the bar- 
gain was made with Johnson for the manuscript; 
but such a conclusion is obviously erroneous. 
Goldsmith was at that time on the best terms with 
Newberry, and engaged in the completion of vari- 
ous minor pieces for him ; and as the fame of the 
one as well as the profit of the other were equally 
at stake on the success of the performance, it is ex- 
ceedingly improbable that both author and pub- 
lisher should be regardless of such revisal and cor- 
rection as was clearly for the benefit of both. 
That Goldsmith did alter and revise this work be- 
fore publication, may be gathered from a conversa- 
tion which took place between Johnson and Mr. 
Boswell. "Talking of a friend of ours," says the 
latter, "who associated with persons of very dis- 
cordant principles and characters, I said he was a 
very universal man, quite a man of the world." 
"Yes, sir," said Johnson, "but one may be so 
much a man of the world, as to be nothing in the 
world. I remember a passage in Goldsmith's 'Vi- 
car of Wakefield,' which he was afterwards fool 
enough to expunge; '1 do not love a man who is 
zealous for nothing."' Boswell, "That was a fine 
passage." Johnson, "Yes, sir; there was another 
fine passage which he struck out : ' When I was a 
young man , being anxious to distinguish my- 
self, I was perpetually starting new propositions; 
but I soon gave this over; for I found that gener- 
ally what was new was false.' " 

The "Vicar of Wakefield" has long been con- 
sidered one of the most interesting tales in our 
language. It is seldom that a story presenting 
merely a picture of common life, and a detail of 
domestic events, so powerfuUy affects the reader. 
The irresistible charm this novel possesses, evinces 



how much may be done, vrithout the aid of extra- 
vagant incident, to excite the imagination and in- 
terest the feehngs. Few productions of the kind 
afford greater amusement in the perusal, and stUl 
fewer inculcate rpore impressive lessons of morali- 
ty. Though vrit and humour abound in every 
page, yet in the whole volume there is not one 
thought injurious in its tendency, nor one senti- 
ment that can offend the chastest ear. Its language, 
in the words of an elegant writer, is what "angels 
might have heard and virgins told." In the deli- 
neation of his characters, in the conduct of his fa- 
ble, and in the moral of the piece, the genius of the 
author is equally conspicuous. The hero displays 
with unaffected simplicity the most striking virtues 
that can adorn social life : sincere in his professions, 
humane and generous in his disposition, he is him- 
self a pattern of the character he represents. The 
other personages are drawn with similar discrimi- 
nation. Each is distinguished by some peculiar 
feature ; and the general grouping of the whole has 
this particular excellence, that not one could be 
wanted without injuring the unity and beauty of 
the design. The drama of the tale is also managed 
with equal skill and effect. There are no extra- 
vagant incidents, and no forced or improbable situ- 
ations ; one event rises out of another in the same 
easy and natural manner as flows the language of 
the narration ; the interest never flags, and is kept 
up to the last by the expedient of concealing the 
real character of Burchell. But it is the moral of 
the work which entitles the author to the praise of 
supereminent merit in this species of writing. No 
writer has arrived more successfully at the great 
ends of a moralist. By the finest examples, he in- 
culcates the practice of benevolence, patience in 
suffering, and reliance on the providence of God. 
A short time after the publication of the "Vicar 
of Wakefield," Goldsmith printed his beautiful 
ballad of the "Hermit." His friend Dr. Percy 
had published, in the same year, "Reliques of An- 
cient English Poetry;" and as the "Hermit" was 
found to bear some resemblance to a tale in that 
collection, entitled " The Friar of Orders Gray," 
the scribblers of the time availed themselves of the 
circumstance to tax him with plagiarism. Irritated 
at the charge, he published a letter in the St. 
James's Chronicle, vindicating the priority of his 
own poem, and asserting that the plan of the other 
must have been taken from his. It is probable, 
however, that both poems were taken from a very 
ancient ballad in the same collection, beginning 
"Gentle Heardsman." Our author had seen and 
admired this ancient poem, in the possession of 
Dr. Percy, long before it was printed ; and some of 
the stanzas he appears, perhaps undesignedly, to 
have imitated in the "Hermit," as the reader will 
perceive on examining the following specimens : — 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



35 



FROM THE OLD BALLAD. 

And grew soe coy and nice to please, 

As women's lookes are often soe, 
He might not Icisse, nor hand forsoothe, 

Unless I willed him so to doe. 

Thus being wearyed with delayes, 

To see I pittyed not his greeffe, 
fle gott him to a secrett place, 

And there hee dyed without releefie. 

And for his sake these weeds I weare, 

And sacrifice my tender age ; 
And every day I'U beg my bread, 

To undergo this pilgrimage. 

Thus every day I fast and pray, 

And ever wiU doe tUl I dye ; 
And gett me to some secrett place; 

For soe did hee, and soe will L 

FROM THE HERMIT. 

For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph'd in his pain. 

Till, quite dejected by my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn. 

In secret, where he died. 

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay ; 
I'U seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 

And so for him wiU L 

There has been an attempt, in later days, to cast 
a doubt upon the title of Goldsmith to the whole 
of this poem. It has been asserted that the "Her- 
mit" was a translation of an ancient French poem 
entitled "Raimond and Angeline." The pretend- 
ed original made its appearance m a trifling peri- 
odical pubUcation, entitled "TheQ,uiz." It bears 
internal evidence of being in reality an imitation of 
Goldsmith's poem. The frivolous source of this 
flippant attack, and its transparent falsity, would 
have caused it to pass unnoticed here, had it not 
been made a matter of grave discussion in some 
periodical journals. To enter into a detailed refu- 
tation would be absurd. 

The poem of "The Hermit" was at first in- 
scribed to the Countess (afterwards Duchess) of 
Northumberland, who had shown a partiahty for 
productions of this kind, by patronizing Percy's 
"Reliques of Ancient EngUsh Poetry." This led 
to a renewed intercourse with the duke, to whom 
we have already narrated Goldsmith's first visit; 
but the time had gone by when his grace could 
have been poUtically useful, and we do not know 
that our author reaped any other advantage from 
the notice that nobleman took of him. than the 



gratification of being recognized by a man of the 
duke's high rank as a literary friend. 

This distinguished peer and his duchess were 
accustomed to spend part of each summer at Bath; 
and one year, after their return to London, her 
grace related to Dr. Percy, with considerable hu- 
mour, the following occurrence, characteristic of 
our author's occasional abstraction of mind. On 
one of the parades at Bath, the duke and Lord 
Nugent had hired two adjacent houses. Gold- 
smith, who was then resident on a visit with the 
latter, one morning walked up into the duke's din- 
ing room, as he and the duchess were preparing to 
sit down to breakfast. In a manner the most free 
and easy he threw hunself on a sofa; and, as he 
was then perfectly knovm to them both, they in- 
quired of him the Bath news of the day. But per- 
ceiving him to be rather in a meditative humour, 
they rightly guessed there was some mistake, and 
endeavoured, by easy and cheerful conversation to 
prevent his becoming embarrassed. When break- 
fast was served up, they invited him to stay and 
partake of it ; and then poor Goldsmith awoke from 
liis reverie, declared he thought he had been in the 
house of his friend Lord Nugent, and with confu- 
sion hastily withdrew; not, however, till the good- 
humoured duke and duchess had made him promise 
to dine with them. 

Something akin to this incident, is the well 
known blunder committed by our author during a 
conversation with the Earl of Shelbourne. One 
evening, wliile in company with this nobleman. 
Goldsmith, after a variety of conversation, fell into 
a fit of musing. At last, as if suddenly recovering 
from his abstraction, he addressed his lordship ab- 
ruptly in this manner; — "My lord, I have often 
wondered why every body should call your lordship 
Malagrida; for Malagrida, you know, was a very 
good man." The well bred peer only replied to 
this awkward compliment by a smile, and the 
heedless poet went on totally uiaconscious of his 
error. It was afterwards remarked by Dr. John- 
son, that this mistake of Goldsmith was only a 
blunder in emphasis, and that the expression meant 
nothing more than, "I wonder they should use 
Malagrida as a term of reproach." 

About this period, or perhaps a little earlier, 
Goldsmith, in addition to the apartments he occu- 
pied in the Temple, took a coimtry-house on the 
Edgeware-road, in conjunction with a Mr. Bott, 
one of his literary friends, for the benefit of good 
air, and the convenience of retirement. To tliis 
Uttle mansion he gave the jocular appellation of Shoe- 
maker^ s Paradise, the architecture being in a fan- 
tastic style, after the taste of its original possessor, 
who was one of the craft. Here he began and 
finished one of his most pleasing and successful 
compilations, a " History of England, in a Series 
of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son." This 



36 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



little work was at fifst published anonymously, 
and was verj' generally ascribed to the pen of Lord 
Lyttleton. That nobleman then held some rank 
in thfe world of letters, and as the chief feature in 
the performance was an easy elegance of language, 
without much depth of thought, or investigation, 
the public were the more easily betrayed into a be- 
lief that it was the work of his lordship. It had 
likewise the honour to be ascribed to the Earl of 
Orrery, and some other noble authors of that period. 
That it was really the production of Goldsmith, 
however, was soon afterwards generally known ; a 
circumstance, which in all probabihty, greatly en- 
hanced its value in the estimation of the world. 
Few books have had a more extensive sale or 
wider circulation. 

The fame our author had now acquired as a 
critic, a novehst, and a poet, prompted him to ad- 
venture in the drama. His first eflbrt produced 
" The Good-natured Man." This comedy was 
oflTcred to Garrick, to be brought out at his theatre 
of Drury-Lane; butafter much fluctuation between 
doubt and encouragement, with his customary hesi- 
tation and uncertainty, he at length declined it. The 
conductof Garrickin this instance was the more sur- 
prising, as the piece had been read and applauded in 
manuscript by most of the author's literary friends, 
and had not only the sanction of Burke's critical 
judgment, but Johnson himself had engaged to 
write the prologue. Colman, the manager of Cov- 
ent-Garden Theatre, was, however, not so scrupu- 
lous ; especially when he found it presented under 
such patronage. It was therefore agreed that it 
should be produced at his theatre ; and it was repre- 
sented there for the first time on the 29th of Janu- 
ary, 17G8. Contrary to the expectations of the au- 
thor and his friends, it did not meet with unquali- 
fied applause ; and though it kept possession of the 
stage nine nights, it was finally withdrawn. The 
peculiar genius of its author was apparent in the 
ease and elegance of the dialogue, and throughout 
the whole there were many keen remarks on men 
and manners ; but the piece was deficient in stage- 
efiect. The Bailiff scene, in particular, was gene- 
rally reprobated, though the characters were well 
drawn. This scene was afterwards greatly abridg- 
ed. Whatever were the faults of the piece as a 
whole, it was admitted that many of the parts pos- 
sessed great comic effect, and these were highly 
applauded. The part of Croaker, in particular, was 
allowed to be excellent. It was admirably sup- 
ported by Shuter, the most popular comedian of his 
day. The drollery of his manner wliile reading 
the incendiary letter in the fourth act, and his ex- 
pression of the different passions by which he was 
agitated, were so irresistibly comical, that he brought 
down thunders of applause. Goldsmith himself was 
so overcome with the acting of Shuter, that he ex- 
pressed his delight before the whole company, as- 



suring him that "he had exceeded his ovra idea 
of the character, and that the fine comic richnes* 
of his colouring made it almost appear as new tcr 
him as to any other person in the house." Dr. 
Johnson furnished the prologue, and publicly de- 
clared, that in his opinion, " The Good-natured 
Man" was the best comedy that had appeared 
since " The Provoked Husband." He dwelt with 
much complacency on the character of Croalcer, 
and averred that none equal to it in originahty 
had for a long time been exhibited on the stage. 
Goldsmith used to acknowledge, that for his con- 
ception of this character he was indebted to John- 
son's Suspirius in the "Rambler." Thatof Honey- 
wood, ,in its undistinguisliing benevolence, bear» 
some resemblance to his own. " The Good-na- 
tured Man" has undoubtedly great merit; and 
though deficient in effect for the stage, will always 
be a favourite in the closet. Mr. Cumberland re- 
marks, that it " has enough to justify the good 
opinion of its literary patrons, and secure its au- 
thor against any loss of reputation; for it has the 
stamp of a man of talents upon it, though its popu- 
larity with the audience did not quite keep pace with 
the expectations that were grounded on the fiat it 
had antecedently been honoured vidth." Short aa 
its career was, however, its author by the sale of the 
copy, and the profits of his three nights, acquired 
not less than five hundred pounds, a sum which 
enabled him to enlarge his domestic establishment, 
and improve his style of living, though it is believ- 
ed on rather a too expensive scale. On removing, 
at this time from an attic in the Inner-Temple, to 
elegant chambers in Brick-court, Middle-Temple, 
he is said to have laid out upwards of four hundred 
pounds. 

Goldsmith's improved circumstances, did not, 
however, compensate for the vexations he suffered 
from the virulence of some of the periodical critics. 
"At that time," says Mr. Cumberland, "there 
was a nest of vipers in league against every name 
to which any degree of celebrity was attached; and 
they kept their hold upon the papers till certain of 
their leaders were compelled to fly their country, 
some to save their ears, and some to save their 
necks. They were weU known ; and I am sorry 
to say, some men whose minds should have been 
superior to any terrors they could hold out, made 
suit to them for favour, nay even combined with 
them on some occasions, and were mean enough 
to enrol themselves under their despicable ban- 
ners." From this class of critics, poor Goldsmith's 
sensitive feelings suffered the horrors of crucifixion. 
To add to his mortification, the comedy of " False 
Delicacy," written by his friend Kelly, came out at 
Drury-Lane Theatre about the same time with 
" The Good-natured Man" at Covent-Garden, and 
had such an unexampled run of success, that it 
was said to have driven its opponent fairly off the 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



37 



field This might, perhaps, be in some measure 
owing to the able management of Garrick, under 
whose special superintendence it was got up; but 
at that time sentimental writing was the prevailing 
taste of the town, and Kelly's piece was the finest 
specimen of the sentiinental school that had ap- 
peared. Although " False Delicacy," according 
to Dr. Johnson, was "totally devoid of character," 
no less than ten thousand copies were sold in the 
course of only one season ; and the booksellers con- 
cerned in the cop3'right, as a mark of the sense 
they entertained of the comedy, evinced by its ex- 
traordinary sale, presented Kelly with a piece of 
plate of considerable value, and gave a sumptuous 
entertainment to him and his frie^ids. These cir- 
cumstances so wrought upon the irritable feelings 
of Goldsmith, in whose disposition, warm and 
generous as it was, envy had an unhappy predomi- 
nance, that he renounced the friendship of Kell}', 
and could with difficulty be brought to forgive him 
this temporary success. Our author, though in 
the chief features of his character the original of his 
own " Good-natured Man," was yet strangely 
jealous of the success of others, and particularly 
in whatever regarded literary fame. 

We find it difficult to reconcile the possession 
of so odious a quality with alTcctioiiate habits and 
benevolent propensities like his. True it is, how- 
ever, that he was prone to indulge this unamiable 



better than I should have done ; for I should have 
bowed and stammered through the whole of it." 

On another occasion, during an interesting ar- 
gument carried on by Johnson, Mayo, and Top- 
lady, at the table of Messrs. Dilly, the booksellers, 
' Goldsmith sat in restless agitation, from a wish to 
get in and shine. Finding himself excluded, he 
had taken his hat to go away, but remained for 
some time with it in his hand, like a gamester who, 
at the close of a long night, lingers for a little while, 
to see if he can have a favourable opening to finish 
with success. Once when he was beginning to 
speak, he found himself overpowered by the loud 
voice of Johnson, who was at the opposite end of 
the table, and did not perceive Goldsmith's attempt. 
Thus disappointed of his wish to obtain the atten- 
tion of the company. Goldsmith in a passion threw 
down his hat, looking angrily at Johnson, and ex- 
claiming in a bitter tone " Take it." When Top- 
lady was going to speak, Johnson uttered some 
sound, which led Goldsmith to think that he was 
beginning again, and taking the words from Top- 
lady. Upon wliich he seized this opportmiity of 
venting Ms own spleen, under the pretext of sup- 
porting another person : "Sir," said he to Johnson, 
"the gentleman has heard you patiently for an 
hour : pray allow us now to hear him." Johnson 
replied, " Sir, I was not interrupting the gentle- 
man ; I was only giving him a signal of my atten- 



passion to so ridiculous an excess, that the instances tion. Sir, you are impertinent.' ' Goldsmith made 
of it are hardly credible. When accompanying 
two beautiful young ladies,* with their mother, on 
a tour in France, he was amusingly angry that 
more attention was paid to them than to him. And 
once, at the exhibition of the Fantoccini in Lon- 
don, when those who sat next him observed with 
what dexterity a puppet was rnaJe to toss a pike, 
he could not bear that it should have such praise, 
and exclaimed with some warmth, " Pshaw! I can 
do it better myself." in fact, on his way home 
with Mr. Burke to supper, he broke his shin, by 
attempting to exhibit to the company how much 
better he could jump over a stick than the puppets. 
His envy of Johnson was one day strongly ex- 
hibited at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
While the doctor was relating to the circle there 
assembled the particulars of his celebrated inter- 
view with the king. Goldsmith remained unmoved 
upon a sofa at some distance, afl^ecting not to join 
in the least in the eager curiosity of the company. 
At length, however, the frankness and simplicity 
of his natural character prevailed. He sprung 
from the sofa, advanced to Johnson, and in a kind 
of flutter, from imagining himself in the situation 
he had just been hearing described, exclaimed, 
" Well, you acquitted yom-self in this conversation 



* The Bliss Hom^ks, one of whom was afterwards married 
to Henry Buubury, Esq. and the other to Colonel Gwyn, 



no reply. Johnson, Boswell, and Mr. Langton, 
towards the evening, adjourned to the club, where 
they found Burke, Garrick, and some other mem- 
bers, and amongst them their friend Goldsmith, 
who sat silently brooding over Johnson's reprimand 
to him after dinner. Johnson perceived this, and 
said aside to some of them, " I'll make Goldsmith 
foi^ive me;" and then called to him in a loud 
voice, " Dr. Goldsmith, — something passed to-day 
where you and I dined ; I ask your pardon." Gold- 
smith answered placidly, "It must be much from 
you, sir, that I take ill." And so at once the dif- 
ference was over ; they were on as easy terms as 
ever, and Goldsmith rattled away as usual.' 

The tincture of envy thus conspicuous in the dis- 
position of our author, was accompanied by another 
characteristic feature, more innocent but withal ex- 
ceedingly ridiculous. He was vain of imaginary 
qualifications, and had an incessant desire of being 
conspicuous in company ; and this was the occasion 
of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage as 
one should hardly have supposed possible in a man 
of Ms genius. When his literary reputation had 
risen deservedly high, and his society was much 
courted, his jealousy of the great attention paid to 
Johnson was more strikingly apparent. One eve- 
ning, in a circle of wits, lie found fault with Bos- 
well for talking of Johnson as entitled to the honour 
of unquestionable superiority. " Sk," said he, 



38 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



" you are for making a monarchy of what shovild 
be a republic." 

He was still more mortified, when, talking in a 
company with fluent vivacity, and, as he flattered 
himself, to the admiration of all who were present, 
a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson 
rolling himself, as if about to speak, suddenly stop- 
ped him, saying, " Stay, stay ; Toctor Shonson is 
going to say something." This was very provok- 
ing to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who frequently 
mentioned it with strong expressions of indigna- 
tion. 

There is thus much to be said, however, for the 
envy of Goldsmith. It was rarely excited but on oc- 
casions of mere literary competition ; and, perhaps, 
appeared much more conspicuous in him than other 
men, because he had less art, and never attempted 
to conceal it. Mr. Boswell used to defend hitn 
against Dr. Johnson for this fault, on the ground 
of his frank and open avowal of it on all occasions,: 
but Johnson had the best of the argument. " He 
talked of it to be sure often enough," said the latter, 
"but he bad so much of it that he could not con- 
ceal it. Now, sir, what a man avows, he is not 
ashamed to think ; though many a man thinks what 
he is ashamed to avow. We are all envious na- 
turally ; but by checking envy, we get the better 
of it. So we are all thieves naturally ; a child al- 
ways tries to get at what it wants the nearest way : 
by good instructions and good habits this is cured, 
tUl a man has not even an inclination to seize what 
is another's ; has no struggle with himself about 
it." But, after all, if ever envy was entitled to be 
called innocent, it certainly was so in the person 
of Goldsmith. Whatever of this kind appeared in 
his conduct was but a momentary sensation, which 
he knew not like other men how to disguise or con- 
ceal. Rarely did it influence the general tenor of 
Ms conduct, and, it is believed, was never once 
known to have embittered his heart. 

While Goldsmith was occupied with his comedy 
of the "Good-natured Man," he was, as usual, 
busily employed in the compilation of various pub- 
lications for the booksellers, particularly a series 
of histories for the instruction of young readers. 
These were, his " History of Rome," in 2 vols. 8vo. 
and the "History of England," in 4 vols. 8vo. 
The " History of Greece," in 2 vols. 8vo. pub- 
lished under his name after his death, can not 
with certainty be ascribed to his pen. For the 
"History of England," Davies the bookseller con- 
tracted to pay him 500Z. and for an abridgment of 
the Roman history, the sum of fifty guineas.* 

These historical compilations possess aU the ease, 



' The articles of agreement relative to these works between 
the bookseller and Goldsmith having been preserved, we quote 
them for the gratification of our reader's curiosity, especially 
as they were drawn by the doctor himself 



grace and simplicity, peculiar to the general style 
of their author, and are well calculated to attract 
young readers by the graces of composition. But 
the more advanced student of history must resort 
to other sources for information. 

In the History of England, in particular, there 
are several mis-statements ; and one instance may 
be given from his account of a remarkable occvir- 
rence in the affairs of his own country, to which 
it might have been expected he would have paid 
more than ordinary attention. This is to be foimd 
in his narrative of the famous siege of London- 
derry, in 1689, sustained against the French army 
during a hundred and four days, after the city was 
found to be without provisions for little more than 
a week, and had besides been abandoned by the 
military commanders as utterly untenable. For 
this memorable defence the country was indebted 
to the courage, conduct, and talents of the Rev. 
George Walker, a clergyman who happened to 
take refuge in the city after it was abandoned by 
the military. Under the direction of Walker, as- 
sisted by two oflScers accidentally in the place, the 
defence was conducted with so much skill, courage, 
and perseverance, and the citizens displayed such 
valour, patience, and fortitude, under innmnerable 
hardships and privations, that the city was finally 
saved.* For his services on this occasion Mr. 



"MEMORANDUM. 

" Russell street, Coveni Garden. 
" It is agreed between Oliver Goldemith, M. B., on the one 
hand, and Thomas Davies, bookseller, of Russell street Covent 
Garden, on the other, that Oliver Goldsmith shall write for 
Thomas Davies, a History of England, from the birth of the 
British Empire, to the death of George the If., in four volumes, 
octavo, of the size and letter of the Roman History, written by 
Oliver Goldsmith. The said History of England shall be 
written and compiled in the space of two years from the date 
hereof. And when the said History is written and delivered 
in manuscript, the printer giving his opinion that the quantity 
above mentioned is completed, that then Oliver Goldsmith 
shall be paid by Thomas Davies the sum of 500^. sterling, for 
having written and compiled the same. It is agreed also, thaf 
Oliver Goldsmith shall print his name to the said work. In 
witness whereof we have set our names the 13th of June, 1769. 

" Oliver Goldsmith. 

" TTmmas Davies." 

"MEMORANDUM. 

" September 15, 1770. 
" It is agreed between Oliver Goldsmith, M.B., and Thomas 
Davies, of Covent Garden, bookseller, that Oliver Goldsmith 
shall abridge, for Thomas Davies, the book entitled Gold- 
smith's Roman History, in two volumes, 8vo, into one volume 
in 12mo, so as to fit it for the use of such as will not be at the 
expense of that in 8vo. For the abridging of the said history, 
and for putting his name thereto, said Thomas Davies shall 
pay Oliver Goldsmith fifty guineas; to be paid him on the 
auridgment and delivering of the copy. As witness our hands. 
" Oliver Goldsmith, 
" Tlwmas Davies." 

A curious journal which Mr. Walker had kept of all the 
occurrences during the siege, was published at that period, in 
4to, and was afterwards republished by the late Dr. Brown, 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



39 



Walker, who belonged to the Established Church, 
was afterwards created Bishop of Dromore by King 
William; but his military zeal prompted him to 
volunteer his services at the battle of the Boyne, 
where he was unfortunately killed. Of this ex- 
traordinary character Goldsmith takes a very slight 
and rather disrespectful notice, stating him to have 
been a dissenting minister, wliich he was not, aird 
neglecting to record either liis promotion or his 
death.* 

Goldsmith, besides his regular employment in the 
compilation of these histories, had now all the other 
business of an author by profession. Either through 
friendship or for money, but oftener from charity to 
the needy or unsuccessful of his brethren, he was 
frequently engaged in the composition of prefaces, 
dedications, and introductions to the performances 
of other writers. These exhibit ingenious proofs 
of his ready talent at general writing, and for the 
most part gave a much better display of the subjects 
treated of than could have been done by their own 
authors. But in tliis view he is rather to be con- 
sidered as an advocate pleading the cause of ano- 
ther, than as delivering the sentiments of his own 
mind; for he often recommends the doubtful pecu- 
liarities, and even the defects of a work, which it is 
obvious, had been engaged on the other side, he 
could with equal ability have detected and exposed. 
Something like this our readers will find in an Ad- 
dress to the Public, which was to usher in propo- 
sals for "A New History of the World, from the 
creation to the present time," in 12 vols. 8vo. by 
Guthrie and others, to be printed for Newberry. 
This undertaking was to form an abridgment of all 
the volumes of the ancient and modern universal his- 
tories ; and our author urges a great variety of topics 
in praise of such contractions and condensing of his- 
torical materials, which, with equal ingenuity, he 



author of the Estimate, etc. One very providential circum- 
stance happened to the besieged. Being reduced by tlie ex- 
tremity of famine to eat every kind of unwliolesome food, they 
were dying in great numliers of the bloody flux ; but the acci- 
dental discovery of some concealed barrels of starch and tal- 
low, relieved their hunger, and cured the dysentery at the 
game time. 

* Our author's inaccuracy, with regard to Mr. Walker, was 
corrected in the following letter addressed to him by Mr. 
Woolsey, of Duiidalk : " To Dr. Goldsmith.— Sir, 1 beg leave 
to acquaint you, there is a mistake in your abridgment of the 
History of England, respecting Dr. Walker, viz. ' one Walker, 
a dissenting minister.' 

" I venture to assure you, Mr. Walker was a clergyman of 
the Established Church of Ireland, who was appointed Bishop 
of Dromore by King William, for his services at Derry, but 
was unfortunately killed at the battle of the Boyne; which I 
hope you will be pleased to insert in future editions of your 
late book. 

" The Duke of Schomberg was certainly killed in passing 
the river Boyne. I am, Sir, with great respect, your most 
obedient humble servant, 

" Thomas Woolsey." 

"Dundalk, April 10, 1772." 



could have opposed and refuted. But the whole is 
truly excellent as a composition. About the same 
time, he drew up a preface or introduction to Dr. 
Brookes's " System of Natural History," in 6 vols. 
12mo, in itself a very dull and uninteresting work; 
but such an admirable display of the subject was 
given in the preface, which he rendered doubly cap- 
tivating by the charms of his style, that the book- 
sellers immediately engaged him to undertake his 
owh larger work of the " History of the Earth and 
Animated Nature." It was tiiis work which Dr. 
Johnson emphatically said, its author would " make 
as entertaining as a Persian Tale." The result 
proved the accuracy of the judgment thus passed on 
it; for, although it contains numerous defects, 5'et 
the witchery of its language has kept it buoyant in 
spite of criticism. The numerous editions through 
which it has passed attest, that, if not a profound, 
it is at least a popular work ; and few will be dispos- 
ed to deny, that with all its faults, if not the most 
instructive, it is undoubtedly the most amusing work 
of the kind yet published. It would be absurd to 
aver, that an adept would find himself enlightened 
by the doctor's labours in that science: but a com- 
mon reader will find his curiosity gratified, and that 
time agreeably disposed of which he bestows on this 
work. When our author engaged in this compi- 
lation, he resolved to make a translation of Pliny, 
and, by the help of a commentary, to make that 
agreeable writer more generally acceptable to the 
pubhc ; but the appearance of Buffon's work induced 
him to change his plan, and instead of translating 
an ancient writer, he resolved to imitate the last 
and best of the moderns who had written on the 
same subject. To this illustrious Frenchman Gold- 
smith acknowledges the highest obligations, but, 
unlucluly, he has copied hun without discrimina- 
tion, anti, while he selected his beauties, heedlessly 
adopted his mistakes. 

In a serio-comical apostrophe to the author, Mr. 
Cumberland observes, on the subject of this work, 
that " distress drove Goldsmith upop undertakings 
neither congenial with his studies, nor worthy of his 
talents. I remember him, when, in his chambers in 
the Temple, he showed me the beginning of his 
' Animated Nature;' it was with a sigh, such as ge- 
nius draws, when hard necessity diverts it from its 
bent to drudge for bread, and talk of birds, and beasts, 
and creeping things, Vv'hich Fidcock's showman 
would have done as well. Poor fellow, he hardly 
knew an ass from a mule, nor a turkey from a goose, 
but when he saw it on the table. But publishers 
hate poetry, and Paternoster-rovr is not Parnassus. 
Even the mighty Dr. Hill, who was not a very deli- 
cate feeder, could not make a dinner out of the 
press, till, by a happy transformation into Hannah 
Glass, he turned liimself into a coo!;;, and sold re- 
ceipts for made-dishes to all the savoury readers in 
the kingdom. Then, indeed, the press ocknow- 



40 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



ledged him second in fame only to John Bunyan: 
his feasts kept pace in sale with Nelson's Fasts ; 
and when his own name was fairly written out of 
credit, he wrote himself into immortality under an 
alias. Now, though necessity, or I should rather 
say, the desire of finding money for a masquerade, 
drove Oliver Goldsmith upon abridging histories, 
and turning Buffon into English, yet I much doubt, 
if, without that spur, he would ever have put his 
Pegasus into action : no, if he had heen rich, the 
world would have been poorer than it is, by the 
loss of all the treasures of his genius, and the con- 
tributions of his pen." 

Much in the same style was Goldsnnth himself 
accustomed to talk of his mercenary labours. A 
poor writer consulted him one day on what subjects 
he might employ his pen with most profit : " My 
dear fellow," said Goldsmith, laughing, indeed, but 
in good earnest, " pay no regard to the draggle-tail 
Muses; for my part, I have always found produc- 
tions in prose more sought after and better paid 
for." 

On another occasion, one of his noble friends, 
whose classical taste he knew and admired, lament- 
ed to him his neglect of the Muses, and enquired 
of him why he forsook poetry, to compile histories, 
and write novels? "My lord," said our. author, 
"by courting the Muses I shall starve, but by my 
other labours, I eat, drink, and have good clothes, 
and enjoy the luxuries of life." This is, no doubt, 
the reason that his poems bear so small a propor- 
tion to his other productions; but it is said, that he 
always reflected on these sacrifices to necessity with 
the bitterest regret. 

Although Goldsmith thus toiled for a livelihood 
in the drudgery of compilation, we do not find that 
he had become negligent of fame. His leisure 
hours were still devoted to his Muse ; and the next 
voluntary production of his pen was the highly- 
finished poem of " The Deserted Village." Pre- 
vious to its publication, the bookseller who had bar- 
gained for the manuscript, gave him a note for one 
hundred guineas. Having mentioned this soon 
afterwards to some of his friends, one of them re- 
marked, that it was a very great sum for so short a 
performance. "In truth," said Goldsmith, "I 
think so too ; it is much more than the honest man 
can afford, or the piece is worth : I have not been 
easy since I received it; I will therefore go back and 
return him his note :" which he actually did, and 
left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him accord- 
incf to the success of the sale and the profits it might 
produce. His estimate of the value of this perform- 
ance was formed from data somewhat singular 
for a poet, who most commonly appreciates his la- 
bours rather by their quality than their quantity. 
He computed, that a hundred guineas was equal to 
five shillings a couplet, which, he modestly observ- 



ed, "was certainly too much, because more than he 
thought any publisher could atford, or, indeed, than 
any modern poetry whatever could be worth." 
The sale of this poem, however, was so rapid and 
extensive, that the bookseller soon paid hkn the full 
amount of the note he had returned, with an ac- 
knowledgment for the disinterestedness he had 
evinced on the occasion. 

Although criticism has allotted the highest rank 
to " The Traveller," there is no doubt that " The 
Deserted Village" is the most popular and favourite 
poem of the two. Perhaps no poetical piece of 
equal length has been more universally read by all 
classes or has more frequently supplied extracts 
for apt quotation. It abounds with couplets and 
single lines, so simply beautiful in sentiment, so 
musical in cadence, and so perfect in expression, 
that the ear is delighted to retain them for theii 
truth, while their tone of tender melancholy indeli 
bly engraves them on the heart. — The character- 
istic of our author's poetry is a prevailing simplici- 
ty, which conceals all the artifices of versification : 
but it is not confined to his expression alone, for it 
pervades every feature of the poem. His delinea- 
tion of rural scenery, his village portraits, his moral, 
political, and classical allusions, while marked by 
singular fidelity, chasteness, and elegance, are all 
chiefly distinguished for this pleasing and natural 
character. The finishing is exquisitely delicate, 
without being overwrought; and, with the feelings 
of tenderness and melancholy which runs through 
the poem, there is occasianally mixed up a slight 
tincture of pleasantry, which gives an additional 
interest to the whole. 

" The Deserted Village" is written in the same 
style and measure with " The Traveller," and may 
in some degree be considered a suite of that poem : 
pursuing some of the views and illustrating in their 
results some of the .principles there laid down. But 
the poet is here more intimately interested in his 
subject. The case is taken from his own experi- 
ence, the scenery drawn from his own home, and 
the application especially intended for his own 
country. 

The main intention of the poem is to contrast 
agriculture with commerce, and to maintain that 
the former is the most worthy pursuit, both as it 
regards individual happiness and national prosperi- 
ty. He proceeds to show that commerce, while it 
causes an influx of wealth, introduces also luxury, 
and its attendant vices and miseries. He dwells 
with pathos on the effects of those lordly fortunes 
which create little worlds of solitary magnificence 
around them, swallowing up the small farms in 
their wide and useless domains ; thus throwing an 
air of splendour over the country, while in fact they 
hedge and wall out its real life and soul — ^its hardy 
peasantry. 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



41 



HI faies the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

The poet, again personified in the traveller, re- 
turns from his wanderings in distant countries to 
the village of his childhood. In the opening of the 
poem he dravFS from memory a minute and beauti- 
ful picture of the place, and fondly recalls its sim- 
ple sports and rustic gambols. In all his journey- 
ings, his perils, and his sufferings, he had ever look- 
ed forward to this beloved spot, as the haven of re- 
pose for the evening of his days. 

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at fiist he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return, and die at home at last. 

With these expectations he returns, after the 
lapse of several years, and finds the vUlage deserted 
and desolate. A splendid mansion had risen in its 
neighbourhood ; the cottages and hamlets had been 
demolished; their gardens and fields were thrown 
into parks and pleasure-grounds; and their rustic 
inhabitants, thrust out from their favourite abodes, 
had emigrated to another hemisphere. 

To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through- torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 

Dejected at this disappointment of his cherished 
hope, the poet wanders among the faint traces of 
past scenes, contrasting their former hfe and gaiety 
with their present solitude and desolation. This 
gives occasion for some of the richest and mellow- 
est picturing to be found in any poetry. The 
village-preacher and his modest mansion; the 
schoolmaster and his noisy troop; the ale-house 
and its grotesque frequenters, are all masterpieces 
of their kind. 

The village alluded to in this poem is at present 
sufficiently ascertained to be Lishoy, near Bally- 
mahon, in the county of Westmeath, Ireland, in 
which Goldsmith passed his youth. It has been 
remarked, that the description of the place and 
the people, together with the introduction of the 
nightingale, a bird, it is said, unknown in the Irish 
ornithology, savour more of the rural scenery and 
rustic life of an English than an Irish vUlage. But 
this presents no insuperable difficulty. Such h- 
censes are customary in poetry ; and it is notoriou." 
that the clear blue sky and the delicious tempera- 
ture of Italy, have with much greater freedom 
been appropriated by English bards to deck out 
their descriptions of an English spring. It is evi- 
dent, indeed, that Goldsmith meant to represent 
his village as an EngHsh one. He took from Lis- 
hoy, therefore, only such traits and characteristics 



as might be applied to village-life in England, and 
modified them accordingly. He took what be- 
longed to human nature in rustic life, and adapted 
it to the allotted scene. In the same way a painter 
takes his models from real life around him, even 
when he would paint a foreign or a classic group. 
There is a verity in the scenes and characters of 
"The Deserted Village" that shows Goldsmith to 
have described what he had seen and felt; and it 
is upon record that an occurrence took place at 
Lishoy, during his life time, similar to that which 
produced the desolation of the village in the poem. 
This occui-rence is thus related by the Rev. Dr. 
Strean, of the diocese of Elphin, in a letter to Mr. 
Mangin, and inserted in that gentleman's "Essay 
on light reading." 

"The poem of 'The Deserted Village,' " says 
Dr. Strean, "took its origin from the circumstance 
of General Robert Napier, the grandfather of the 
gentleman who now lives in the house, within 
half a mile of Lishoy, built by the general, having 
purchased an extensive tract of the country sur- 
rounding Lishoy, or Auburn; in consequence of 
which, many families, here called cottiers, were re- 
moved to make room for the intended improve- 
ments of what was now to become the wide do- 
main of a rich man, wann with the idea of chang- 
ing the face of his new acquisition, and were forc- 
ed, 'with fainting steps,' to go in search of 'torrid 
tracts,' and 'distant climes.' 

"This fact might be sufficient to establish the 
seat of the poem ; but there can not remain a doubt 
in any unprejudiced mind, when the following are 
added ; viz. that the character of the village -preach- 
er, the above-named Henry, the brother of the poet, 
is copied from nature. He is described exactly as 
he lived: and his 'modest mansion' as it existed. 
Burn, the name of the village-master, and the site 
of his school-house, and Catherine Giraghty, a 
lonely widow, 

The wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 

(and to this day the brook and ditches near the 
spot where her cabin stood abound with cresses), 
still remain in the memory of the inhabitants, and 
Catherine's children live in the neighbourhood. 
The pool, the busy mill, the house where 'nut- 
brown draughts inspired,' are still visited as the 
poetic scene; and the 'hawthorn bush,' growing 
in an open space in front of the house, which I 
knew to have three trunks, is now reduced to one, 
the other two having been cut, from time to time, 
by persons carrying pieces of it away to bo made 
into toys, etc. in honour of the bard, and of the 
celebncy of his poem. All these contribute to the 
same proof; and the 'decent church,' which I at- 
tended for upwards of eighteen years, and which 
tops the neighbouring hill,' is exactly described 



42 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



as seen from Lishoy, the residence of the preach- 
er." 

To the honour of Ireland, and in particular of 
a gentleman named Hogan, grandson to General 
Napier the destroyer, we are enabled to add that 
the \dllage of Lishoy, now bearing its poetical 
name of Auburn, has been renovated and restor- 
ed, at least as to its locaUties, to what it was in its 
happiest days. The parsonage, rescued from 
a legion of pigs and poultry, which had taken 
possession of its lower apartments, and relieved 
from loads of grain and fodder, under which its 
upper chambers had for some years groaned, has 
resumed its ancient title of Lishoy-house : the 
church yet crowns the hill, and is again entitled 
to the appellation of decent; the school-house 
maintains its station; and the village-inn, with its 
sign repainted, its chambers re-whitewashed, and 
the varnished clock replaced in its corner, echoes 
once more with the voices of rustic poUticians, 
merry peasants, and buxom maids, 

Half willing to he press'd, 
Who kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

To render the dispensation of poetical justice still 
more complete, the usurping mansion, the erection 
of which occasioned the downfall of the village, 
has become dismantled and dilapidated, and has 
been converted into a barrack.* 



Goldsmith dedicated "The Deserted Village" to 
his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds, from motives of af- 
fection. " I can have no expectations," said the 
poet, "in an address of this kind, either to add to 
your reputation, or to establish my own. You can 
gain nothing from my admiration, as I am igno- 
rant of that art in which you are said to excel : 
and I may lose much by the severity of yovir judg- 
ment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than 
you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I 
never paid much attention, I must be indulged at 
present in following my affections. The only 
dedication I ever made was to my brother, because 
I loved him better than most other men. He is 
since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to 
you." 



* The following account of the renovation of this village 
is extracted from a number of the New Monthly Magazine. 
"About three mUes from BaUymahon, a very central town in 
the sister kingdom, is the mansion and village of Aubiim, so 
called by their present possessor, Captain Hogan. Through 
the taste and improvement of this gentleman, it is now a beau- 
tiful spot, althougli fifteen years since it presented a very bare 
and unpoetical aspect. This, however, was owing to a cause 
which serves strongly to corroborate the assertion, that Gold- 
smith had this scene in view when he wrote his poem of ' The 
Deserted Village.' The then possessor. General Napier, turn- 
ed all his tenants out of their farms, that he might enclose 
them in his own private domain. Littleton, the mansion of 
the General, stands not far off, a complete emblem of the deso- 
lating spirit lamented by the poet, dilapidated and converted 
into a barrack. 

"The chief object of atti-action is Lishoy, once the parson- 
age-house of Henry Gold!(mith, that brother to whom the 
poet dedicated his 'Traveller,' and who is represented as the 
Village Pastor, 

Passing rich with forty younds a-year. 

"When I was in tlie country, the lower chambers were in- 
habited by pigs and sheep, and the drawing-rooms by oats. 
Captain Hogan, however, has, I believe, got it since into his 
possession, and has, of course, improved its condition. 

"Though at first strongly inclined lo dispute the identity of 
Auburn, Lishoy-house overcame my scruples. As I clambered 
over the rotten gate, and crossed the grass-grown lawn, or 
court, the tide of association became too strong for casuistry : 
here the poet dwelt and wrote, and here his thoughts fondly 
recurred when composing his ' Traveller,' in a foreign land. 
Yonder was the decent church, that literally ■ topped the neigh- 



bouring hiU.' Before me lay the little hiU of Knockrue, on 
which he declares, in one of his letters, he had rather sit with 
a book in hand, than mingle in the proudest assemblies. And 
above all, startingly true, beneath my feet was 

Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild. 

"A painting from the life could not be more exact. 'The 
stubborn currant-bush' lifts its head above the rank grass, and 
the proud hollyhock flaunts where its sisters of the flower- 
knot are no more. 

"In the middle of the village stands the old 'hawthom- 
Iree,' built up with masoiury, to distinguish and preserve it : 
it is old and stunted, and suffers much from the depreda- 
tions of post-chaise travellers, who generally stop to procure a 
twig. Opposite to it is the village ale-house, over the door of 
which swings 'The Three Jolly Pigeons.' Within, every 
thing is arranged according to the letter: 

The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose. 

"Captain Hogan, 1 have heard, found great difficulty in 
obtaining 'the twelve good rules,' but at length purchased 
them at some London book-stall, to adorn the white-washed 
parlour of the 'Three Jolly Pigeons.' However laudable this 
may be, nothing shook my faith in the reality of Auburn so 
much as this exactness, which had the disagreeable air of be- 
ing got up for the occasion. The last object of pilgrimage is 
the quondam habitation of the schoohnaster, 

There, in his noisy mansion, skili'd to rule. 

" It is surrounded with fragrant proofs of its identity in 

The blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 

"Here is to be seen the chair of the poet, which fell into the 
hands of its presents possessors at the wreck of the parson- 
age-house : they have frequently refused large offers of pur- 
chase; but more, I dai-e say, for the sake of drawing contri- 
butions from the curious than from any reverence for the 
bard. The chair is of oak, with back and seat of cane, which 
precluded aU hopes of a secret drawer, lite that lately disco- 
vered in Gay's. There is no fear of its being worn out by the 
devout earnestness of sitters — as the cocks and hens have 
usurped undisputed possession of it, and protest most cla- 
morously against all attemps to get it cleansed, or to seat one's 
self. 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



43 



The warm friendship which had subsisted for 
years between the painter and the poet, warranted 
this dedication ; while the fine qualities which dis- 
tinguished that eminent artist, richly merited the 
elegant compliment thus paid him by Goldsmith. 
*' Reynolds," says Mr. Cumberland, " was a per- 
fect gentleman ; had good sense, great propriety, 
with all the social attributes, and all the graces of 
hospitahty, equal to any man. He well knew how 
to appreciate men of talents, and how near akin 
the muse of poetry was to that art of which he was 
so eminent a master. From Goldsmith he caught 
the subject of his famous Ugolino ; what aids he 
got from others, if he got any, were worthily be- 
stowed and happily applied. Great as an artist, 
Sir Joshua was equally distinguished as a man ; 
and as few have better deserved, so few have had 
a more ample share of prosperity dealt out to them. 
He sunned himself, as it were, in an vmclouded 
sky, and his Muse, that gave him a palette dressed 
by all the Graces, brought him also a cornucopia, 
lich and full as Flora, Ceres, and Bacchus could 
conspire to make it. When he was lost to the 
world," continues Mr. Cumberland, "his de^xth 
Was the dispersion of a bright and luminous circle 
of ingenious friends, whom the elegance of his 
manners, the equability of his temper, and the at- 
traction of his talents, had caused to assemble 
round him as the centre of their society. In edl the 
most engaging graces of his art, in disposition, at- 
4;itude, employment, character of his figures, and 
above aU, in giving mind and meaning to his por- 
traits, if I were to say Sir Joshua never was ex- 
celled, I am inclined to believe so many better 
opinions would be with me, that I should not be 
found to have said too much." 



"The controversy concerning the identity of iliis Auburn 
was formerly a standing theme of discussion among the learn- 
ed of the neighhourhood, hut since the pros and cons have 
been all ascertained, the argument has died away. Its abet- 
tors plead the singular agreement between the local history of 
the place and the Auburn of the poem, and the exactness with 
which the scenery of the one answers to the description of 
the other. To this is opposed the mention of the nightingale, 

And fiU'd each pause the nightingale had made ; — 

there being no such bird in the island. The objection is slight- 
ed, on the other hand, by considering the passage as a mere 
poetical license: 'Besides,' say they, 'the robin is the Irish 
nightingale.' And if it be hinted, how unlikely it was that 
<ioldsmith should have laid the scene in a place from which 
he was and had been so long absent, the rejoinder is always, 
'Pray, sir, was Milton in heU when he built Pandemonium's' 
"The line is naturally drawn between; — there can be no 
•doubt that the poet intended Biigland by 



***** The land to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay. 

"But it is very natural to suppose, that at the same time 
his imagination had in view the scenes of his youth, which 
give such strong features of resemblance to the picture." 



Soon after the publication of "The Deserted 
Village," Goldsmith found leisure to accompany a 
party of ladies on an excursion to Paris. The 
only memorial which has been preserved of this 
journey, is the following fragment of a letter ad- 
dressed to his friend Sir Joshua. 

"My dear Friend, — We had a very quick pas- 
sage from Dover to Calais, which we performed in 
three hours and twenty minutes, all of us extreme- 
ly sea-sick, which must necessarily have happened, 
as my machine to prevent sea-sickness was not 
completed. We were glad to leave Dover, be- 
cause we hated to be imposed upon ; so were in 
high spirits at coming to Calais, where we were 
told that a little money would go a great way. Upon 
landing two httle trunks, which was all we carried 
with us, we were surprised to see fourteen or fif- 
teen fellows, all running down to the ship to lay 
their hands upon them ; four got under each trunk, 
the rest surrounded, and held the hasps ; and in 
this manner our httle baggage was conducted with 
a kind of funeral solemnity, till it was safely lodg- 
ed at the custom-house. We were well enough 
pleased with the people's civility, till they came to 
be paid. Every creature that had the happiness 
of but touching our trunks with their finger, ex- 
pected sixpence ; and they had so pretty a civil 
manner of demanding it, that there was no refus- 
ing them. When we had done with the porters, we 
had next to speak with the custom-house ofiicers, 
who had their pretty civil way too. We were di- 
rected to the Hotel d'Angleterre, where a valet de 
place came to offer his services ; and spoke to me 
ten minutes before I once found out that he was 
speaking English. We had no occasion for his 
services, so we gave him a httle money because he 
spoke English, and because he wanted it. I can 
not help mentiomng another circumstance ; I bought 
a new ribbon for my wig at Canterbury, and the 
barber at Calais broke it, in order to gain sixpence 
by buying me a new one." 

About this period, the Royal Academy of paint- 
ing was established, and Sir Joshua seized the op- 
portunity it afforded him of testifying his regard and 
partiaHty for Goldsmith, by procuring for him the 
appointment of Professor of Ancient History. 
Though unattended with either emolument or 
trouble, it conferred some respectability, and entitled 
him to a seat at the occasional meetings of the aca- 
demicians, as well as at their annual dinner. He 
himself properly considered it a more complimenta- 
ry distinction, and from a passage in the following 
letter to his brother Maurice, it is e\'ident he would 
have prized his new office much more liighly had 
it been coupled with that unpoetical accompani- 
ment, a salary. Maurice was the poet's youngest 
brother. Not having been bred to any business, 
he, upon some occasion, complained to Ohver, that 
he found it difficult to live like a gentlemen. On 



44 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



which the poet begged he would without delay 
quit so unprofitable a pursuit, and betake him- 
self to a trade. Maurice wisely took the hint, and 
bound himself apprentice to a cabinet-maker. He 
had a shop in Dublin when the Duke of Rutland 
was Lord Lieutenant; and his grace, at the in- 
stance of Mr. Orde (afterwards Lord Bolton,) 
made him an inspector of the licenses in that city, 
out of regard for his brother's memory. He was 
also appointed mace-bearer on the erection of the 
Royal Irish Academy; both of them places very 
compatible with his business. In the former, he 
gave proofs of his integrity, by detecting several 
frauds in the revenue in his department, by which 
he himself might have profited, if he had not been 
a man of principle. He died without issue. 

The letter is dated January, 1770. 

"Dear Brother, — I should have answered 
your letter sooner, but in truth I am not fond of 
thinking of the necessities of those I love, when it 
is so very little in my power to help them. I am 
sorry to find you are still every way unprovided 
for; and what adds to my uneasiness is, that I have 
received a letter from my sister Johnson,* by which 
I learn that she is pretty much in the same circum- 
stances. As to myself, I believe I could get both 
you and my poor brother-in-law something lilie 
that wliich you desire, but I am determined never 
to ask for little things, nor exhaust any little inter- 
est I may have, until I can serve you, him, and 
myself more effectually. As yet, no opportunity 
has offered, but I beheve you are pretty well con- 
vinced that I will not be remiss when it arrives. 
The king has lately been pleased to make me Pro- 
fessor of Ancient History in a Royal Academy of 
Painting, which he has just established, but there 
is no salary annexed ; and I took it rather as a com- 
phment to the institution, than any benefit to my- 
felf. Honours to one in my situation are something 
like ruffles to a man that wants a shirt. You tell 
me that there are fourteen or fifleen pounds left me 
in the hands of my cousin Lawder, and you ask 
me what I would have done with them. My dear 
brother, I would by no means give any directions to 
my dear worthy relations at Kilmore how to dis- 
pose of money, wMch is, properly speaking, more 
theirs than mine. All that I can say, is, that I en- 
tirely, and this letter will serve to witness, give up 
any right and title to it; and I am sure they will 
dispose of it to the best advantage. To them I en- 
tirely leave it, whether they or you may think the 
whole necessary to fit you out, or whether our poor 
sister Johnson may not want the half, I leave en- 
tirely to their and your discretion. The kindness 
of that good couple to our poor shattered family, 
demands our sincerest gratitude : and though they 
have almost forgot me, yet, if good things at last ar- 



rive, I hope one day to return, and increase theit 
good-hmnour by adding to my own. I have sent 
my cousin Jenny a miniature picture of myself, as 1 
beheve it is the most acceptable present I can offer. 
I have ordered it to be left for her at George Faulk- 
ner's, folded in a letter. The face, you well know, 
is ugly enough, but it is finely painted. I will short- 
ly also send my friends over the Shannon some 
mezzotinto prints of myself, and some more of my 
friends here, such as Burke, Johnson, Reynolds, 
and Colman. I believe I have written a hundred 
letters to different friends in your country, and 
never received an answer from any of them. I do 
not know how to account for this, or why they are 
unwilhng to keep up for me those regards which I 
must ever retain for them. If then you have a mind 
to oblige me, you will write often, whether I an- 
swer you or not. Let me particularly have the news 
of our family and old acquaintances. For instance, 
you may begin by telling me about the family 
where you reside, how they spend their time, and 
whether they ever make mention of me. Tell me 
about my mother, my brother Hodson, and his son, 
my brother Harry's son and daughter, my sister 
Johnson, the family of Ballyoughter, what is be- 
come of them, where they five, and how they do. 
You talked of being my only brother; I don't im- 
derstand you : Where is Charles'? A sheet of pa- 
per occasionally filled with news of this kind would 
make me very happy, and would keep you nearer 
my mind. As it is, my dear brother, believe me to 
be yours most affectionately."* 

The lives of Lord Bolingbroke and Dr. ParneH, 
undertaken for the booksellers, were the next pro- 
ductions that came from his pen. They were pre- 
fixed to the respective works of these writers, pub- 
lished about 177*0 or 1771. Both performances are 
executed with his wonted taste and felicity of ex- 
pression ; and, in his memoir of Parnell, the pover- 
ty of incident peculiar to the life of a scholar is in- 
geniously supplied by the author's own reflections. ~ 
When Dr. Johnson afterwards undertook to write 
the "Lives of the Poets," he concluded the series 
with that of Parnell, and seized the opportunity it 
afforded him of paying an elegant compliment to 
the memory of his deceased friend. " The life of 
Dr. Parnell," said he, "is a task which I should 
very willingly decline, since it has lately been writ- 
ten by Goldsmith ; a man of such variety of powers, 
and such felicity of performance, that he always 
seemed to do best that which he was doing; a man 
who had the art of being minute without tedious- 
ness, and general without confusion; whose lan- 
guage was copious without exuberance, exact with- 
out constraint, and easy without weakness. 



" His youngest sister, who had made an unfortunate marriage. 



• To tlie original of this letter there is annexed a receipt, 
•which shows the sura of 15/. was paid to Maurice Goldsmith, 
for a legacy bequeathed to Oliver Goldsmith by the late Rev. 
Thomas Contarine, dated 4th February, 1770. 



OP DR. GOLDSMITH. 



45 



" What such an author told, who would tell it 
again? I have made an abstract from his larger nar- 
ration ; and have this gratification from my attempt, 
that it gives me an opportunity of. paying due tri- 
bute to the memory of Goldsmith." 

Amongst liis various undertakings for the book- 
sellers at tliis period, there was one, however, in 
which Goldsmith was peculiarly unfortunate. He 
had been employed by Griffin to make a selection 
of elegant poems fi-om the best English classics, for 
the use of boarding-schools, and to prefix to it one 
of his captivating prefaces. In noting the selections 
for the printer, Goldsmith unluckily marked off one 
of the most indecent tales in Prior, — a circumstance 
that effectually ruined the reputation and the sale 
of the work at the same time. It has been said, 
that the error in this instance must have arisen 
from inadvertency or carelessness; but the inadver- 
tency must have been excessive, as the tale is actu- 
ally introduced with a criticism. 

Goldsmith, when conversing on the subject of his 
labours at this time as a compiler, used to refer to 
the " Selection of English Poetry," as a striking 
instance of the facility with which such work might 
sometimes be performed. He remarked " that of 
all his compilations, this showed most the art of the 
profession." To furnish copy for it required no in- 
vention, and but Utile thought: he had only to 
mark with a pencil the particular passages for the 
printer, so that he easily acquired two hundred 
pounds; "but then," said he, "lest the premium 
should be deemed more than a compensation for the 
labour, a man shows his judgment in these selec- 
tions, and he may be often twenty years of his life 
cultivating that judgment." 

In 1771, Goldsmith was invited by Mr. Beimet 
Langton and his lady, the Countess of Rothes, to 
spend some part of the autumn with them at their 
seat in Lincolnshire. Sir Joshua Reynolds, it 
would seem, had promised to accompany him on 
this visit; but, from the follovfing letter to Mr. 
Langton, neither he nor Sir Joshua were able at 
that time to avaU themselves of the invitation. The 
letter is dated Temple, Brick-court, September 7, 
1771. 

" My Dear Sir, — Since I had the pleasure of 
seeing you last, I have been almost wholly in the 
country at a farmer's house quite alone, trying to 
write a comedy. It is now finished , but when, or 
how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at 
all, are questions I can not resolve. I am therefore 
so much employed upon that, that I am under the 
necessity of putting off my intended visit to Lin- 
colnshire for this season. — Reynolds is just return- 
ed from Paris, and finds himself now in the case of 
a truant, that must make up for his idle time by 
diligence. We have therefore agreed to postpone 
our journey till next smnmer, when we hope to 
have the honour of waiting upon Lady Rothes and 



you, and staying double the time of our late intend- 
ed visit. We often meet, and never without re- 
membering you. I see Mr. Beauclerk very often, 
both in town and country. He is now going di- 
rectly forward to become a second Boyle : deep in 
chemistry and physics. Johnson has been down 
upon a visit to a country parson, Dr. Taylor, and 
is returned to his old haimts at Mrs Thrale's. 
Burke is a farmer, en attendant a better place ; but 
visiting about too. Every soul is visiting about, 
and merry, but myself: and that is hard, too, as 1 
have been trying these three montlis to do some- 
thing to malte people kugh. There have I been 
strolling about the hedges, studying jests, with a 
most tragical countenance. The ' Natural Histo- 
ry' is about half finished, and I will shortly finish 
the rest. God knows I am tired of this Idnd of 
finishing, which is but bungling work; and that 
not so much my fault as the fault of my scur- 
vy circumstances. They begin to talk in town of 
the Opposition's gaining ground; the cry of liberty 
is still as loud as ever. I have published, or Davies 
has published for me, ' An Abridgment of the His- 
tory of England,' for which I have been a good 
deal abused in the newspapers for betraying the 
liberties of the people. God knows I had no thought 
for or against liberty in my head ; my whole aim 
being to make up a book of a decent size, that, as 
Squire Richard says, ' would do no harm to nobo- 
dy.' However, they set me down as an arrant 
Tory, and consequently an honest man. When 
you come to look at any part of it, you will say that 
I am a sour Whig. God bless you; and, with my 
most respectful compliments to her ladyship, I re- 
main, dear sir, your most affectionate humble ser- 
vant." 

Goldsmith's residence at the farmer's house men- 
tioned in this letter, appears to have been continu- 
ed for a considerable time. It was situated near to 
the six-mile stone on the Edgeware-road ; and Mr. 
Boswell mentions that he and Mr. Mickle, transla- 
tor of " The Lusiad," paid him a visit there, in 
April, 1772. Unfortunately they did not find him 
at home ; but having some curiosity to see his apart- 
ment, they went in, and found curious scraps of 
descriptions of animals scravrled upon the wall, 
with a black lead pencil. He had carried down his 
books thither, that he might pursue his labours 
with less interruption. According to the testimo- 
ny of a hterary friend, who had close intercourse 
with him for the last ten years of his hfe, the fol- 
lowing was his mode of study and living, while in 
the country. He first read in a morning from the 
original works requisite for the compilation he had 
in hand, as much as he designed for one letter or 
chapter marking down the passages referred to on 
a sheet of paper, with remarks. He then rode or 
walked out with a friend or two, returned to dinner, 
spent the day generally convivially, without much 



46 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



drinking, to which he was never addicted; and 
when he retired to his bed-chamber, took up his 
books and papers with him, where he generally 
wrote the chapter, or the best part of it, before he 
went to rest. This latter exercise, he said, cost 
him very little trouble ; for having all his materi- 
als dulji- prepared, he wnrote it with as much ease as 
a common letter. The mode of life and study thus 
described. Goldsmith, however, only pursued by 
ifits. He loved the gaieties, amusements, and so- 
ciety of London; and amongst these he would oc- 
casionally lose himself for months together. To 
make up for his lost time he would again retire to 
the farm-house, and there devote himself to his la- 
bours with such intense application, that, for weeks 
successively, he would remain in his apartments 
■without taking exercise. This desultory system is 
supposed to have injured his health, and to have 
brought on those fits of the strangury to wliich he 
was subject in the latter part of his life. He used 
to say, that " he believed the farmer's family with 
whom he lodged thought him an odd character, simi- 
lar to that in which the Spectator appeared to his 
landlady and her children: he was The Gentleman." 

About this period he was concerned in a work 
called " The Gentleman's Journal," published once 
a fortnight. It was conducted under the joint ma- 
nagement of Kenrick, Bickerstaff, and others; but 
was soon discontinued. When a friend was talk- 
ing to our author one day on the subject of this 
work, he concluded his remarks by observing, 
what an extraordinary sudden death it had. "Not 
at all, sir," said Goldsmith; "a very common case; 
it died of too many doctors." 

His next performance was his second attempt 
as a dramatist. Not discouraged by the cold re- 
ception which his first play had met with, he re- 
solved to try his fate with a second, and, maugre a 
host of adverse critics, succeeded. In his letter to 
Mr. Langton he mentions, that he had been occu- 
pied in writing a comedy, "trying these three 
months to do something to make the people laugh," 
and "strolling about the hedges, studying jests, 
with a most tragical countenance." This was the 
drama which he afterwards christened "She Stoops 
to Conquer; or, The Mistakes of a Night." Al- 
though then just finished, its publication was de- 
layed till it should be acted at one of the theatres; 
and from the various obstacles and delays which 
are there thrown in an author's way, it was not 
produced till March, 1773. Much difference of 
opinion existed as to the probability of its success. 
The majority of critics to whom it had been sub- 
mitted were apprehensive of a total failure ; and it 
was not till after great solicitation, that Mr. Col- 
man, the manager of Covent Garden theatre, con- 
sented to put it in rehearsal. That gentleman had 
himself given incontestable proofs of dramatic ge- 
nius, in the production of various pieces, and was 



besides a critic of acknowledged taste and acumen. 
His reluctance to accept of our author's play, 
therefore, and his decided condemnation of it at its 
last rehearsal, was almost considered decisive of its 
fate. Goldsmith, however, did not despair of it 
himself; and the opinion of Dr. Johnson, without 
being sanguine, leaned to the favourable side. In 
a letter to Mr. Boswell he says, " Dr. Goldsmith 
has a new comedy, which is expected in the spring. 
No name is yet given to it. The chief diversion 
arises from a stratagem, by which a lover is made 
bo mistake his future father-in-law's house for an 
inn. This, you see, borders upon farce. The di- 
alogue is quick and gay, and the incidents are so 
prepared as not to seem improbable." And after- 
wards, when Colman had actually consented to 
bring it out, Johnson wrote thus to the Rev. Mr. 
White : " Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy in re- 
hearsal at Covent Garden, to which the manager 
predicts ill success. I hope he will be mistaken : 
1 think it deserves a very kind reception." Others 
of Goldsmith's friends also entertained favourable 
opinions of the piece ; and a few of them even pro- 
phetically anticipated a triumph over the judgment 
of the manager. Perhaps, however, the strong and 
decided interest taken by these friends in the fate 
of the play was one great cause of its success. A 
large party of them, with Johnson at their head, 
attended to witness the representation, and a scheme 
to lead the plaudits of the house, which had been 
preconcerted with much address, was carried into 
execution with triumphant effect. This contri- 
vance, and the circumstances which led to it are 
detailed by Mr. Cumberland in his Memoirs. "It 
was now," says Mr. Cumberland, "that I first met 
him at the British Coffee-house. He dined with 
us as a visiter, introduced, as I thinli, by Sir Joshua 
Reynolds, and we held a consultation upon the 
naming of his comedy, which some of the company 
had read, and which he detailed to the rest after 
his manner with a great deal of good humour. 
Somebody suggested — She Stoops to Conquer; and 
that title was agreed upon. When I perceived an 
embarrassment in his manner towards me, which 
I could readily account for, I lost no time to put 
him at his ease; and I flatter myself I was success- 
ful. As my heart was ever warm towards my con- 
temporaries, I did not counterfeit, but really felt a 
cordial interest in his behalf; and I had soon the 
pleasure to perceive, that he credited me for my 
sincerity.— 'You and I,' said he, 'have very differ- 
ent morives for resorting to the stage. I write for 
money, and care little about fame." — I was touched 
by this melancholy confession, and from that mo- 
ment busied myself assiduously amongst all my 
connexions in his cause. The whole company 
pledged themselves to the support of the ingenu- 
ous poet, and faithfully kept their promise to him. 
In fact, he needed all that could be done for him, 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



47 



as Mr. Colman, then manager of Covent Garden 
theatre, protested against the comedy, when as yet 
he had not struck upon a name for it. Johnson 
at length stood forth in all his terrors as champion 
for the piece, and backed by us, his cUents and re- 
tainers, demanded a fair trial. Colman again pro- 
tested; but, with that salvo for his own reputation, 
Uberally lent his stage to one of the most eccentric 
productions that ever found its way to it; and 
' She Stoops to Conquer' was put into rehearsal, 

" We were not over sanguine of success, but 
perfectly determined to struggle hard for our au- 
thor : we accordingly assembled our strength at the 
Shakspeare Tavern in a considerable body for an 
early dinner, where Samuel Johnson took the 
chair at the head of a long table, and was the life 
and soul of the corps : the poet took post silently 
by his side, with the Burkes, Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
Fitzherbert, Caleb Whitefoord, and a phalanx of 
North British predetermined applauders, under 
the banner of Major Mills, all good men and true. 
Our illustrious president was in inimitable glee : 
and poor Goldsmith that day took all his raillery 
as patiently and complacently as my friend Bos- 
well would have done any day, or every day of his 
life. In the mean time we did not forget our du- 
ty; and though we had a better comedy going, in 
which Johnson was chief actor, we betook our- 
selves in good time to our separate and allotted 
posts, and waited the awful drawing up of the cur- 
tain. As our stations were preconcerted, so were 
our signals for plaudits arranged and determined 
upon in a manner that gave every one his cue 
where to look for them, and how to follow them up. 

" We had amongst us a very worthy and efficient 
member, long since lost to his friends and the 
world at large, Adam Drummond, of Etmiable me- 
mory, who was gifted by nature with the most so- 
norous, and at the same time the most contagious, 
laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs. 
The neighing of the horse of the son of Hystaspes 
was a whisper to it ; the whole thunder of the thea- 
tre could not drown it. This kind and ingenu- 
ous friend fairly forewarned us, that he knew no 
more when to give his fire than the cannon did 
that was planted on a battery. He desired, there- 
fore, to have a flapper at his elbow, and I had the 
honour to be deputed to that office. 1 planted him 
in an upper box, pretty nearly over the stage, in 
full view of the pit and galleries, and perfectly well 
situated to give the echo all its play through the 
hollows and recesses of the theatre. The success 
of our manoeuvres was complete. All eyes were 
upon Johnson, who sat in a front row of a side 
box; and when he laughed, every body thought 
themselves warranted to roar. In the mean time 
my friend followed signals with a rattle so irresisti- 
bly comic, that, when he had repeated it several 



grossed by his person and performances, that the 
progress of the play seemed likely to become a se- 
condary object, and I found it prudent to insinuate 
to him that he might halt his music without any 
prejudice to the author ; but, alas ! it was now too 
late to rein him in : he had laughed upon my sig- 
nal where he found no joke, and now unluckily he 
fancied that he found a joke in almost every thing 
that was said; so that nothing in nature could be 
more mal-a-propos than some of his bursts every 
now and then were. These were dangerous mo- 
ments, for the pit began to take umbrage; but we 
carried our point through, and triumphed not only 
over Cohnan's judgment but our own." 

The victory thus achieved was a source of infi- 
nite exultation to Goldsmith, not more from the 
pride of success, than from the mortification he 
imagined it caused to the manager, at whom he 
was not a little piqued in consequence of the fol- 
lowing circumstance. 

On the first night of performance he did not 
come to the house till towards the close of the re- 
presentation, having rambled into St. James's 
Park to ruminate on the probable fate of his piece; 
and such was his anxiety and apprehension, that 
he was with much difficulty prevailed on to repair 
to the theatre, on the suggestion of a friend, who 
pointed out the necessity of his presence, in order 
to mark any objectionable passages, for the purpose 
of omission or alteration in the repetition of the 
performance. With expectation suspended be- 
tween hope and fear, he had scarcely entered the 
passage that leads to the stage, when his ears were 
shocked with a hiss, which came from the audience 
as a token of their disapprobation of the farcical 
supposition 'of Mrs. Hardcastle being so deluded 
as to suppose herself at a distance of fifty miles 
from home while she was actually not distant fifty 
yards. Such was our poor author's tremor and 
agitation on tliis unwelcome salute, that running 
up to the manager, he exclaimed, "What's that? 
what's thatl" — "Pshaw, doctor!" replied Colman, 
in a sarcastic tone, " don't be terrified at squibs, 
when we have been sitting these two hours upon 
a barrel of gunpowder." The pride of Goldsmith 
was so mortified by tliis remark, that the friendship 
which had before subsisted between him and the 
manager was from that moment dissolved. 

The play of " She Stoops to Conquer" is found- 
ed upon the incident already related, which befel 
the author in his younger days, when he mistook 
a gentleman's house for an inn. Although, from 
the extravagance of the plot, and drollery of the 
incidents, we must admit that the piece is very 
nearly allied to farce, yet the dialogue is carried on 
in such pure and elegant language, and the strokes 
of wit and humour are so easy and natural, that 
few productions of the drama afford more pleasiure 



times, the attention of the spectators was so en- 1 in the representation. It still keeps possession of 



48 

the stage as a stock play, and is frequently acted ; 
a circumstance which proves the accuracy of the 
opinion expressed by Dr. Johnson, "that he knew 
of no comedy for many years that had so much 
exhilarated an audience; that had answered so 
much the great end of comedy— that of making an 
audience merry." In publisliing this play. Gold- 
smith paid his friend Johnson the compliment of 
a dedication, and expressed in the strongest man- 
ner the high regard he entertained for Mm. ^ "By 
inscribing this slight performance to you," said he, 
"I do not mean so much to compliment you as 
myself. It may do me some honour to inform the 
pubhc, that I have hved many years in intimacy 
with you. It may serve the interests of mankind 
also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be 
found in a character without impairing the most 
imafFected piety." 

The good fortune wliich attended this drama 
was productive of its usual concomitants— a mixed 
portion of applause and censure, with instances of 
fulsome flattery and furious detraction. While 
from less fortunate bards, whose poverty iiiduced 
them to sohcit his bounty, he received the incense 
of adulation in a torrent of congratulatory address- 
es; from others, more independent, who were 
jealous of his reputation, and envied his success, 
he experienced all the virulence of malignant cri- 
ticism and scurrilous invective. A single instance 
of each may gratify the curiosity of our readers. 

"ON DR. GOLDSMITH-S COIVIEDY 

' SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.' 

" Quite sick in her bed Thalia was laid, 

A sentiment puke had quite kill'd the sweef maid, 

Her bright eyes lost aU of their fire; 
When a regular doctor, one Goldsmith by name, 
Found out her disorder as soon as he came, 
And has made her (for ever 'twill crown all his fame) 

As lively as one can desire. 

" Oh! doctor, assist a poor bard who liesiU, 
Without e'er a nuree, e'er a potion, or pill : 

From your kindness he hopes for some ease. 
You're a ' good-natured man' all the world does allow, 
O would your good-nature but shine forth just now, 
In a maimer— I'm sm-e your good sense wiU tell how, 
~ Your servant most humbly 'twould please ! 

" The bearer is the author's wife, and an an- 
swer from Dr. Goldsmith by her, will be ever grate- 
fully acknowledged by his humble servant, 

'John Oakman.' 

" Saturday, March 27, 1773." 

The other instance exhibits an attempt to check 
the author's triumph on the ninth night after the 
representation of his play. It was a most illiberal 
personal attack, in the form of a letter (supposed 
to be written by Dr. Kenrick.) addressed to Gold- 
smith himself, and inserted in " The London 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



Packet" of the 34th March, 1773, pubhshed by 
Mr. Thomas Evans, bookseller in Paternoster- 
row. Both the manner and the matter are un- 
worthy of Kenrick, who was a man of talents. It 
was probably the work of a more obscure hand. 

" FOR THE LONDON PACKET. 

" to dr. goldsmith. 

" Vous vous noyez par vanity. 

" Sin, — The happy knack which you have 
learnt of puffing your own compositions, provokes 
me to come forth. You have not been the editor 
of newspapers and magazines, not to discover the 
trick of literary humhug: but the gauze is so thin, 
that the very foolish part of the world see through 
it, and discover the doctor's monkey face, and 
cloven foot. Your poetic vanity is as unpardona- 
ble as your personal. Would man believe it, and 
will woman bear it, to be told, that for hours the 
great Goldsmith will stand surveying his gi-otesque 
orang-outang's figure in a pier glass? Was but the 

lovely H k as much enamoured, you would not 

sigh, my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity is 
preposterous. How will this same bard of Bedlam 
ring the changes in the praise of Goldy ! But what 
has he to be either proud or vain of 7 ' The Trav- 
eller' is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles — 
principles diametrically opposite to hberty. What is 
' The Good-natured Man' but a poor, water-gruel, 
dramatic dosel What is the ' Deserted Village' 
but a pretty poem, of easy numbers, without fancy, 
dignity, genius, or fire7 And pray what may be 
the last speaking pantomime, so praised by the 
doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of stuif, 
the figure of a woman with a fish's tail, without 
plot, incident, or intriguel We are made to laugh 
at stale dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry 
for wit, and grunace for humour ; whereiar every 
scene is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, 
the laws of nature, and of the drama : viz. two 
gentlemen come to a man of fortune's house, eat, 
drink, etc. and take it for an inn. The one is in- 
tended as a lover for the daughter : he talks with 
her for some hours : and when he sees her again in 
a different dress, he treats her as a bar-girl, and 
swears she squinted. He abuses the master of the 
house, and threatens to kick him out of his own 
doors. The 'squire, whom we are told is to be a 
fool, proves the most sensible being of the piece ; 
and he makes out a whole act, by bidding his mo- 
ther lie close behind a bush, persuading her that 
his father, her own husband, is a highwajTuan, 
and that he has come to cut their throats, and, to 
give his cousin an opportunity to go off, he drives 
his mother over hedges, ditches, and through ponds. 
There is not, sweet sucking Johnson, a natural 
stroke in the whole play, but the yoxmg fellow's 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



49 



giving the stolen jewels to the mother, supposing 
her to be the landlady. That Mr. Colman did no 
justice to this piece, I honestly allow; that he told 
his friends it would be damned, 1 positively aver ; 
and, from such ungenerous insinuations, without a 
dramatic merit, it rose to public notice ; and it is 
now the ton to go and see it, though I never saw 
a person that either hked it, or approved it, any 
more than the absurd plot of Home's tragedy of 
' Alonzo.' Mr. Goldsmith, correct your arrogance, 
reduce yom* vanity : and endeavour to believe, as a 
man, you are of the plainest sort ; and, as an au- 
thor, but a mortal piece of mediocrity. 

" Brise le iniroir le injidele, 
" Qui vous cache la verity. 

"Tom Tickle." 

Indignant at the wanton scurrility of this letter, 
which was pointed out to him by the officious Idnd- 
ness of a ftiend, and enraged at the indelicacy of in- 
troducing the name of a lady with whom he was ac- 
quainted. Goldsmith, acccompanied by one of his 
countrymen, waited on Mr. Evans, and remonstrat- 
ed wdth him on the malignity and cruelty of such an 
unmerited attack upon private character. After ar- 
guing upon the subject, Evans, who had really no 
concern in the paper, except as publisher, went to 
examine the file; and while stooping down for it, the 
author was rashly advised by his friend to take that 
opportunity of using his cane, which he imme- 
diately proceeded to do, and applied it to the pub- 
lisher's shoulders. The latter, however, unexpect- 
edly made a powerful resistance, and being a stout, 
high-blooded Welshman, very soon returned the 
blows with interest. Perceiving the turn that mat- 
ters were taking, Goldsmith's hot-headed friend 
fled out of the shop, leaving him in a sad plight, 
and nearly overpowered by the fierce Welshman. 
In the mean time. Dr. Kenrick, who happened to 
be in a private room of the publisher's, came forward 
on hearing the noise, and interposed between the 
combatants, so as to put an end to the fight. The 
author, sorely bruised and battered, was then con- 
veyed to a coach ; and Kenrick, though suspected 
to be the writer of the libel, affecting great com- 
passion for his condition, conducted him home. 
This ridiculous quarrel afforded considerable sport 
for the newspapers before it was finally made up. 
An action was threatened by Evans for the assault, 
but it was at length compromised. Many para- 
graphs appeared, however, reflecting severely on 
the impropriety of Goldsmith's attempting to beat 
a person in his own house; and to these he con- 
ceived it incumbent on him to make a reply. Ac- 
cordingly the following justificatory address ap- 
peared in " The Daily Advertiser" of Wednesday, 
March 31, 1773. 
4 



« TO THE PUBLIC. 

" Lest it may be supposed, that I have been wil- 
ling to correct in others an abuse of what I have 
been guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that in 
all my life I never wrote or dictated a single para- 
graph, letter, or essay in a newspaper, except a few 
moral essays, under the character of a Chinese, 
about ten years ago, in the 'Ledger;' and a letter, 
to which I signed my name, in the 'St. James's 
Chronicle.' If the liberty of the press, therefore, 
has begn abused, 1 have had no hand in it. 

" I have always considered the press as the pro- 
tector of our freedom; — as a watchful guardian, 
capable of uniting the weak against the encroach- 
ments of power. What concerns the pubUc most 
properly admits of a public discussion. But, of 
late, the press has turned from defending public 
interest to making inroads upon private hfe; from 
combating the strong to overwhelming the feeble. 
No condition is now too obscure for its abuse ; and 
the protector is become the tyrant of the people. In 
this manner, the freedom of the press is beginning 
to sow its ovra dissolution; the great must oppose 
it from principle, and the weak from fear; till at 
last every rank of mankind shall be found to give 
up its benefits, content with security from its in- 
sults. 

"How to put a stop to tliis licentiousness, by 
which all are indiscriminately abused, and by which 
vice consequently escapes in the general censure, 
I am unable to tell. All I could wish is, that as 
the law gives us no protection against the injury, 
so it should give calumniators no shelter after 
having provoked con-ection. The insults which 
we receive before the public, by being more open, 
are the more distressing. By treating them with 
silent contempt, we do not pay a sufficient defer- 
ence to the opinion of the world. By recurring to 
legal redress, we too often expose the wealmess of 
the law, which only serves to increase our morti- 
fication by failing to relieve us. In short, every 
man should singly consider himself as a guardian 
of the liberty of the press; and, as far as his influ- 
ence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its li- 
centiousness becoming at last the grave of its free- 
dom. 

"OiJVER Goldsmith." 

The composition of this address is so much in 
the style of Dr. Johnson, that it was at first gener- 
ally believed to be the production of his pen. John- 
son, however, always disclaimed any participation 
in it ; and his disavowal has since been recorded in 
the volmnes of Mr. Boswell. "On Saturday, 
April 3," says that gentleman, "the day after my 
arrival in London this year, I went to his (Dr. 
Johnson's) house late in the evening, and sat with 
Mrs. Williams till he came home. I found, in the 



50 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



'London Chronicle,' Dr. Goldsmith's apology to 
the public for beating Evans, a bookseller, on ac- 
count of a paragraph in a newspaper published by 
him, which Goldsmith thought impertinent to him 
and to a lady of his acquaintance. The apology 
was written so much in Dr. Johnson's manner, 
that both Mrs. Williams and I supposed it to be 
his; but when he came home he soon undeceived 
us when he said to Mrs. Wilhams, ' Well, Dr. 
Goldsmith's manifesto has got into your paper,' I 
asked him if Dr. Goldsmith had written it, with an 
air that made him see I suspected it was his, though 
subscribed by Goldsmith.— Johnson, 'Sir, Dr. 
Goldsmith would no more have asked me to wi'ite 
such a thing as that for him, than he would have 
asked me to feed him with a spoon, or to do any 
thing else that denoted his imbecility. I as much 
believe that he wrote it, as if I had seen him do it 
Sir, had he shown it to any one friend, he would 
not have been allowed to publish it. He has, in- 
deed, done it very well ; but it is a foohsh thing well 
done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the 
success of his new comedy, that he has thought 
every thing that concerned him must be of impor- 
tance to the public' Boswell; ' I fancy, sir, this is the 
first time that he has been engaged in such an ad- 
venture.' Johnson; 'Why, sir, I believe it is the 
first time he has beat; he may have been 6ea<e?i be- 
fore. This, sir, is a new plume to him.' " 

Had it not been for the painful and ludicrous 
circumstances attending this unlucky squabble, 
Goldsmith, in all probabihty, would have felt mor€ 
than sufficiently elated with the success of his new 
comedy. Independent of the literary triumph it 
afforded him over the judgments of Colman and 
others as critics, the pecuniary advantages he reap- 
ed from it were equally satisfactory. He cleared, 
by this performance alone, upwards of eight hun- 
dred pounds. Indeed, the emolument which at 
this period Goldsmith derived from his various pro- 
ductions was considerable. In less than two years, 
it is computed that he realised not less than eighteen 
hundred pounds. This comprises the profits o 
both his comedies, various sums received on 
count of his "Animated Nature," which was s. 
in progress, and the copy-money of his lives of 
Bolingbroke and Parnell. Nevertheless, wjllhii 
little more than a year after the receipt of /these 
sums, his circumstances were by no means in a 
prosperous condition. The profuse liberality with 
which he assisted indigent authors was one of the 
causes which led to such a state of things. Pur- 
don, Pilkington, Hiff'ernan, and others, but parti- 
cularly some oi' liis own countrymen, hung per- 



distress always awakened his sensibility, and emp* 
tied his purse. But what contributed more than 
any other cause to exhaust his means and embar- 
rass his affairs, was the return of his passion for 
gaming. The command of money had unfortu- 
nately drawn him again into that pernicious habit, 
and he became the easy prey of the more knowing 
and experienced in the art. Notwithstanding the 
amount of his receipts, therefore, poor Goldsmith, 
from the goodness of his heart, and his indiscretion 
at play, instead of being able to look forward to 
affluence, was involved in all the perplexities of 
debt. 

It is remarkable that about this time he attempt- 
ed to discard the ordinary address by which he 
had been long recognised ; rejecting the title of 
Doctor, and assuming that of plain Mr. Gold- 
smith. The motives that induced this innovation 
have never been properly explained. Some have 
supposed that it was owing to a resolution never 
more to engage as a practical professor in the heal- 
ing art; while others have imagined that it was 
prompted by his dislike to the constraint imposed 
by the grave deportment necessary to support the 
appellation and character of Doctor, or perhaps 
from ambition to be thought a man of fashion ra- 
ther than a mere man of letters. Whatever were 
the motives, he found it impossible to throw off a 
designation by which he had been so long and gene- 
rally known ; the world continued to call him Doc- 
tor (though he was only Bachelor of Medicine) 
till the day of his death, and posterity has perpetu- 
ated the title. 

" The History of the Earth and Animated Na- 
ture," on which he had been engaged about four 
years, at length made its appearance in the begin- 
ning of 1774, and finally closed the literary labours 
of Goldsmith. During the progress of this under- 
taking, he is said to have received from the publish- 
er eight hundred and fifty pounds of copy-money. 
Its character, as a work of literature and science, 
ave already noticed. 

The unfinished poem of "Retaliation," the only 
performance that remains to be noticed, owed its 
birth to some circumstances of festive merriment 
that occurred at one of the meetings in St. James's 
Coffee-house. The occasion that produced it irs 
thus adverted to by Mr. Cumberland in his Me- 
moirs : " It was upon a proposal started by Edmund 
Burke, that a party of friends, who had dined to- 
gether at Sir Joshua Reynolds' and my house, 
should meet at the St. James's Coffee-house; 
which accordingly took place, and was occasion- 
ally repeated with much festivity and good fellow- 



petually about hiin, played upon his credulity, and, j ship. Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry, a very amia- 
under pretence of borrowing, literally robbed himible and old friend of mine. Dr. Douglas, since 
of his money. Though duped again and again I bishop of Salisbury, Johnson, David Garrick, Sir 
by some of these artful men, he never could steel' Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, Ednumd and 
his heart against their applications. A story of Richard Burke, Hickey, with two or three others. 



'^ OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



51 



constituted our party. At one of these meetings, 
an idea was suggested of extemporary epitaphs upon 
I the parties present ; pen and ink were called for, 
I and Garrick off hand wrote an epitaph with a good 
/ deal of humour upon poor Goldsmith, who was the 
• first in jest, as he proved to be in reality, that we 
committed to the grave. The dean also gave him 
an epitaph, and Sir Joshua illuminated the dean's 
verses with a sketch of his bust in pen and ink, 
inimitably caricatured. Neither Johnson nor Burke 
wrote any thing ; and when I perceived Oliver was 
rather sore, and seemed to watch me with that kind 
of attention which indicated his expectation of 
something in the same kind of burlesque with 
theirs, I thought it time to press the joke no far- 
ther, and wrote a few couplets at a side-table; 
which, when I had finished, and was called upon 
by the company to exhibit. Goldsmith, with much 
agitation, besought me to spare him ; and I was 
about to tear them, when Johnson wrested them 
out of my hand, and in a loud voice read them at 
the table. I have now lost all recollection of them, 
and in fact they were little worth remembering ; 
but as they were serious and complimentary, the 
effect they had upon Goldsmith was the more pleas- 
ing for being so entirely unexpected. The con- 
cluding line, which is the only one I can call to 
mind, was — 

'All mourn the poet, I lament the man.' 

This I recollect, because he repeated it several 
times, and seemed much gratified by it. At our 
next meeting, he produced his epitaphs as they 
stand in the little posthumous poem abovemen 
tioned ; and this was the last time he ever enjoyed 
the company of his friends." 

The dehcacy with which Mr. Cumberland acted 
on this occasion, and the compliment he paid to 
our author, were not thrown away. In drawing 
the character of Cumberland in return. Goldsmith, 
while he demonstrated his judgment as a critic, 
proved his gratitude and friendship at the same 
time, in designating him, 

" The Terence of England, the mender of hearts." 
Other members of the club, however, were hit off 
with a much smaller portion of compliment, and 
for the most part with more truth than flattery . 
yet the wit and humour with which he discrimi- 
nated their various shades of character, is happily 
free from the slightest tincture of ill-nature. His 
epitaph on Mr. Burke proves liim to have been in- 
timately acquainted with the disposition and quali- 
ties of that celebrated orator. The characteristics 
of Mr. Burke's brother are humorously delineated 
and were highly appropriate; the portrait of Dr. 
Douglas is critically true ; but the most masterly 
■ sketch in the piece is undoubtedly the character of 
Garrick, who had been peculiarly severe in his 
epitaph on Goldsmith. 



On the evening that Goldsmith produced " Re- 
taliation" he read it in full club, and the members 
were afterwards called on for their opinions. Some 
expatiated largely in its praise, and others seemed 
to be dehghted with it; yet, when its publication 
was suggested, the prevailing sentiment was de- 
cidedly hostile to such a measure. Goldsmith hence 
discovered, that a little sprinkling of fear was not 
an unnecessary ingredient in the friendship of the 
world; and though he meant not immediately to 
pubhsh his poem, he determined to keep it, as he 
expressed himself to a friend, " as a rod in pickle 
for any future occasion that might occur." But 
this occasion never presented itself: a more awful 
period was now approaching. 

A short time previous to this, he had proJ€ 
an important literary work, under the title of " A 
Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences." In 
this undertaking he is said to have engaged all Ms 
literary friends, including most of the members of 
the Literary Club, particularly Johnson, Reynolds, 
and Burke, who promised to promote the design 
with all their interest, and to furnish him with 
original articles on various subjects to be embraced 
by the work. So much had he this project at 
heart, — so sanguine was he of its success, — and so 
Uttle doubt did he entertain of encouragement from 
the booksellers, that without previous concert with 
any one of the trade, he actually printed and pub- 
lished the Prospectus at his own expense. These 
gentlemen, however, were not, at that, time, dis- 
posed to enter upon so heavy an undertaking, and 
of course received his proposals so coldly, that he 
fomid himself obliged to abandon the design. It is 
supposed that he had fondly promised himself re- 
lief from his pecuniary difiiculties by this scheme, 
and consequently his chagrin at the disappointment 
was the more keenly felt. He frequently lamented 
the circumstance to his friends ; and there is little 
doubt that it contributed, with other vexations, to 
aggravate the disease which ended in his dissolu- 
tion. 

Goldsmith had been, for some 3'ears, occasionally 
aflSicted with a strangury. The attacks of this 
disease had latterly become more frequent and vio- 
lent; and these, combined with anxiety of mind on 
the subject of his accumulating debts, embittered 
his days, and brought on almost habitual despon- 
dency. While in this unhappy condition, he was 
attacked by a nervous fever in the spring of 1774. 
On Friday, the 25th of March, that year, finding 
himself extremely ill, he sent at eleven o'clock at 
night for Mr. Hawes, an apothecary, to whom he 
complained of a violent pain extending all over the 
fore-part of his head ; his tongue was moist, he had 
a cold shivering, and his pulse beat about ninety 
strokes in a minute. He said he had taken two 
ounces of ipecacuanha wine as a vomit, and that it 
was his intention to take Dr. James's fever pow- 



52 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



ders, which he desired might be sent him. Mr. 
Hawes rephed, that in his opiirion this medicine 
was very improper at that time, and begged he 
would not think of it; but every argument used 
seemed only to render him more detennined in Ins 
own opinion. 

Mr. Hawes knowing that on former occasions 
Goldsmith had always consulted Dr. Fordyce, and 
that he entertained the highest opinion of his abili- 
ties as a physician, requested permission to send 
for him. To this, with great reluctance, he gave 
consent, as the taking of Dr. James's powders, ap- 
peared to be the only object that employed his at- 
tention ; and even after he had given his consent, 
he endeavoured to throw an obstacle in the way, 
by saying, that Dr. Fordyce Vf as gone to spend the 
evening in Gerrard-street, " v/here," added he, "I 
should also have been myself, if I had not been indis- 
posed." Mr. Hawes immediately dispatched a mes- 
.sencrer for Dr. Fordyce, whom he found at home, 
and who instantly waited upon Goldsmith. 

Dr. Fordyce, on perceiving the symptoms of the 
disease, was of the same opinion with Mr. Hav^es 
respecting Dr. James's powders; and strongly re- 
presented to the patient the impropriety of his tak- 
ing that medicine in his present situation. Un- 
happily, however, he was deaf to all remonstrances, 
and persevered in his own resolution. 

On the following morning Mr. Hawes visited 
his patient, and found him very much reduced; 
his voice feeble, and his pidse very qiiick and small. 
When he inquired of him how he did. Goldsmith 
sighed deeply, and in a very low and languid tone 
said, " he wished he had taken his friendly advice 
last night." 

Dr. Fordyce arrived soon after Mr. Hawes, and 
saw with alarm the danger of their patient's situa- 
tion. He therefore proposed to send for Dr. Tm-- 
ton, of whose talents and skill he knew Goldsmith 
had a great opinion : to this proposal the patient 
readily consented, and ordered Iris servant to go di- 
rectly. Doctors Fordyce and Turton accordingly 
met at the time appointed, and had a consultation. 
This they contmued twice a day till the 4th of 
April, 1774, when the disorder terminated in the 
death of the poet, in the forty-fifth year of his age. 

Goldsnrith' s sudden and unexpected dissolution 
created a general feeling of regret among the htera- 
ry circles of that period. The newspapers and pe- 
riodical publications teemed with tributary verses 
to his memory ; and perhaps no poet was ever more 
lamented in every possible variety of sonnet, elegy, 
epitaph, and dirge. Mr. Woty's lines on the oc- 
casion we select from the general mass of eulogy. 

"Adieu, sweet bard! to each fine feeling true, 
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few ; 
Three form'd to clianii e'en vicious minds — and these 
With hai'mless mirth the social soul to please. 



Another's woe thy heart could always melt ; 
None gave more free, — for none more deeply felt. 
Sweet bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise; 
Yes, — these survive to time's remotest day, 
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
Reader, if number'd in the Muses' train. 
Go, tmie the lyre, and imitate Ms strain; 
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, 
Depart in peace, and iinitale iJie man." 

" Of poor Dr. Goldsmith," said Johnson, in an- 
swer to a query of Boswell's, "there is little to be 
told more than the papers have made public. He 
died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by 
imeasiness of mind. His debts began to be heavy, 
and all his resources were exhausted. Sir Joshua 
is of opinion, that he owed no less than two thou- 
sand pounds.* Was ever poet so trusted before'?" 

The extraordinary sum thus owing by Gold- 
smith excited general surprise after his death, and 
gave rise to some ill-natured and injurious reflec- 
tions. To tho!?e, however, who were intimately 
acquainted with his careless disposition and habits, 
the wonder was not, that he should be so much in 
debt, but, as Johnson remarks, that he should have 
been so much trusted. He was so liberal in his 
donations, and profuse in Ms general disburse- 
ments ; so unsettled in his mode of living, and im- 
prudent in gaming; and altogether so little accus- 
tomed to regulate his expenses by any system of 
economy, that at last his debts greatly exceeded his 
resources ; and their accimiulation towards the close 
of Ms life was by no means matter of astonishment. 
These debts, however, consisted chiefly of sums 
that he had taken up in advance, from the mana- 
gers of the two theaters, for comedies which he had 
engaged to furnish to each; and from the booksel- 
lers for publications which he was to finish for the 
press; — all which engagements he fully intended, 
and would probabl}'^ have been able to fulfil, as he 
had done on former occasions in similar exigencies ; 
but Ms premature death unhappUy prevented the 
execution of Ms plans. 

The friends of Goldsmith, literary as well as per- 
sonal, were exceedingly nmnerous, and so attach- 
ed to Ms memory, that they determined to honour 
his remaurs with a pirbUc funeral, and to bury him 
in Westminster Abbey. His pall was to have 
been supported by Lord Shelburne, Lord Louth, 
Sir Joshua Reyirolds, the Hon. Mr. Beauclerk, 
Mr. Edmund Burke, and Mr. Garrick. Some cir- 
cumstances, wMch have never been explained, oc- 
ccurred to prevent tliis resolution from being carri- 
ed into effect. It is generally believed that the cMef 
reason was a feeling of dehcacy, suggested by the 
disclosure of his embarrassed affairs, and the extra- 
ordinary amount of Ms debts. He was, therefore, 
privately interred in the Temple burying-ground, 



'iOOOl.— Campbell's Biography of Goldsmilh. 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



53 



a few select friends paying the last sad offices to 
his remains. A short time afterwards, however, 
the members of the Literary Club suggested, and 
zealously promoted, a subscription to defray the ex- 
pense of a monmnent to lus memory. The neces- 
sary funds were soon realized, and the chisel of 
NoUekens was employed to do honour to the poet. 
The design and workmanship of this memorial 
were purposely sunple and inexpensive. It was 
erected in Poet's Corner in "Westminster Abbey, 
between the monument of Gay and that of the 
Duke of Argyll. On this occasion, the statuary 
is admitted to have produced a good hkeness of the 
person commemorated. The bust of Goldsmith is 
exhibited in a large medallion, embellished with 
literary ornaments, underneath which is a tablet of 
white marble, with the following Latin inscription 
by Dr. Johnson. 



In addition to this eulogiura on the literary qua- 
lities of his friend,, Johnson afterwards honoured 
his memory with the following tetrastick in Greek. 

Tov Tci'fov ilcropa,ug tov OKtCapioio, kovihv 

Aifpoirt f^n a-sjuvw, Suve, TroS'ta-a-i ttcltu ' 

KKaun TToaTyiv, lo'rofMov, (pva-ix,ov. 

" Thou beholdest the tomb of OZ/tc?-.' press not, O stranger, 
with the foot of folly, the venerable dust. Ye who care for 
nature, for the charms of song, for the deeds of ancient days, 
weep for the historian, the naturaUst, the poet." 

The general cast of Goldsmith's figure and phy- 
siognomy was not engaging, and the impression 
made by his writings, on the mind of a stranger, 



OLIVARn GOLDSMITH, 

Poetae, Physici, Historic!, 
Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 

non tetigit, 

Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: 

Sive risus essent movendi, 

Sive lacrymae, 

AtTectuum potens at lenis dominator: 

Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis, 

Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus : 

Hoc monumento memoriam coluit 

Sodalium amor, 

Amicorum fides, 

Lectorum veneratio. 

Natus in Hibemia Forniee Longfordiensis, 

In loco cui nomen Pallas, 

Nov. sxix, MDCCXXXI. 

Eblanae Uteris institutus. 

Obiit Londini, 

April, iv. MDCCLXXIV.* 



* Tliis Latin inscription having been undertaken at the sug- 
gestion of a meeting which took place in the house of Mr. 
Cumberland, when some members of the Literaiy Club were 
present, Jolmson, either out of deference to them, or from the 
carelessness and modesty which characterised him as to his 
own writings, submitted the composition to the revisal of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, with a request (o show it afterwards to the 
Club for their approval. "I have been kept away from you," 
says he, in a card to Sir Joshua, "I know not well how; and 
of these vexatious hindrances I know not when there will be 
an end. I therefore send you the poor dear Doctor's epitaph. 
Read it fu'st yourself; and, if you then think it right, show it to 
the Club. I am, you know, willing to be corrected. If you thnik 
any thing much amiss, keep it to yom-self till we come to- 
gether." The epitaph was accordingly laid before the Club 
soon afterwards, and though no alteration was made, yet it 
gave rise to a great deal of discussion, and was productive of 
a curious lileraxyjeu d' esprit, not only singular in itself, but 
remarkable for the celebrated names connected with it. 

"Thisjfiu d'esprit," says Sir William Forbes, in a letter to 
Mr. Boswell, "took its rise one day at dinner at our friend Sir 
Joshua Reynolds's. AH the company present, except myself, 
were friends and acquaintance of Dr. Goldsmith. The epi- 
taph, written for him by Dr. Johnson, became the subject of 
conversation, and various emendations were suggested, which 
it was agreed should be submitted to the Doctor's considera- 
tion. But the question was, Wlio should have the courage to 



propose them to him? At last it was hinted, that there could 
be no way so good as that of a Round Robin, as the sailora 
call it, which they make use of when they enter into a conspi- 
racy, so as not to let it be known who puts his name first or 
last to the paper. This proposition was instantly assented to'; 
and Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry, now bishop of Killaloe, drew 
up an address to Dr. Johnson on the occasion, replete with wit 
and humour, but which, it was feared, the Doctor might think 
treated the .subject with too much levity. Mr. Burke then pro- 
posed the address as it stands in the paper in voriting [the pa- 
per was enclosed,] to which I had the honom- to officiate as 
clerk. 

" Sir Joshua agreed to carry it to Dr. Johnson, who received 
it with much good-huinour, and desired Sir Joshua to tell the 
gentlemen that he would alter the epitaph in any manner they 
pleased, as to the sense of it; but he would never consent to 
disgrace the wall's of Westminster Abbey with an English 
inscription. 1 consider this Round Robin," continues Sir 
William, " as a species of literary curiosity worth preserving, 
as it marks, in a certain degree, Dr. Johnson's character." 
The foUowing transcript of it, as given by Mr. Boswell, may 
gratify such of our readers as are curious in literary anecdote. 
We, tlie circumscribers, having read with great pleasure an 
intended epitaph for the monument of Dr. Goldsmith, which, 
considered abstractedly, appears. to be, for elegant composi- 
tion and masterly style, in every respect worthy of the pen 
of its learned author, are yet of opinion, that the character 
of the deceased, as a writer, particularly as a poet, is per- 
haps not delineated with aU the exactness which Dr. Jolm- 
son is capable of giving it. We, therefore, with deferejice 
to his superior judgment, humbly request that he would at 
least take the trouble of revising it, and of making such ad- 
ditions and alterations as he shall think proper, upon a fur- 
ther perusal. But if we might ventiu-e to express our wishes, 
they would lead us to request, that he would write the epi- 
taph in English, rather than in Latin; as we think that the 
memory of so eminent an EngUsh writer ought to be perpetu- 
ated in the language to which his works are likely to be so 
lasting an ornament, which we also know to have been the 
opinion of the late Doctor himself. 

The circumscribers to this cm-ious remonstrance, agreeably 
to their respective signatures, were as follows: viz — Edm. 
Burke, Tho. Franklin, Ant. Chamier, G. Colman, Wm. Vack- 
eU, J. Reynolds, W. Forbes, T. Barnard, R. B. SheridMi, P. 
Metcalfe, E. Gibbon, Jos. Warton. This hasty composition, 
as remarked by Mr. Boswell, is one of the thousand instances 
which evince the extraordinary promptitude of Mr. Bm-ke, 
who, while he was equal to the greatest things, could adorn 
the least; could with equal facility embrace the vast and com- 
plicated speculations of politics, or the ingenious topics of 
literary investigation. It is also an eminent proof of the re- 
verence with which Johnson was regarded by some of the 



54 



LIFE AND WRITINGS 



was not confirmed by the external graces of their 
author. In stature he was somewhat under the 
midddle size; his body was strongly built, and his 
limbs, as one of his biographers expresses it, were 
more sturdy than elegant. His forehead was low. 
and more prominent than is usual ; his complexion 
palhd ; his face almost round, and pitted with the 
small-pox. His first appearance was therefore by 
no means captivating : yet the general lineaments 
of his countenance bore the stamp of intellect, and 
exhibited traces of deep thinking; and when he 
grew easy and cheerful in company, he relaxed in- 
to such a display of benevolent good-humour, as 
soon removed every unfavourable impression. His 
pleasantry in company, however, sometimes de- 
generated into buffoonery; and this circumstance, 
coupled with the inelegance of his person and de- 
portment, often prevented him from appearing to 
so much advantage as might have been expected 
from his learning and genius. 

The aptitude of Goldsmith to blunder in conver- 
sation has excited considerable surprise when con- 
trasted with his powers as a -WTiter. His literary 
associates used to be struck with the disparity, and 
some of them puzzled themselves to account for it. 
Sir Joshua Reynolds once mentioned that he had 
frequently heard Goldsmith talk warmly of the 
pleasure of being lilced, and observe how hard it 
would be if literary excellence should preclude a 
man from that satisfaction, which he perceived it 
often did, from the envy that attended it. "I am, 
therefore, convinced," said Sir Joshua, "that he 
was often intentionally absurd in conversation, in 
order to lessen himself in social intercourse, trust- 
ing that his character v/ould be sufficiently sup- 
ported by his works." But this ajDpears to be the 
excess of refinement in conj ecture ; and Mr. Bos- 
well's reason, which ascribed it to Goldsmith's 
" vanity, and an eager desire to be conspicuous 
Avherever he was," though less charitable, is more 



ablest men of his time, in .various departments, and even by 
Buch of them as lived most with him. 

Altliough Johnson was in great good-humour with the pro- 
duction as ajeud'esprii, yet, on seeing Dr. Warton's name to 
the suggestion that the epitaph should be in English, he ob- 
served to Sir Joshua, " I wonder that Joe Warton, a scholar by 
profession, should be such a fool." He said too, " I should 
have thought Mund Burke would have had more sense." Mr. 
Langton, who was one of the company at Sir Joshua's, lilce a 
sturdy scholar, resolutely refused to sign the Round Robin. 
On another occasion, when somebody endeavoured to argue 
in favour of its being in Englisli, Johnson said, "Tlie lan- 
guage of tlie country of whicli a learned man was a native, is 
not the language fit for his epitapli, which should be in ancient 
and permanent language. Consider, sir, how you should feel 
were you to find at Rotterdam an epitaph on Erasmus in 
Dutch!" Perhaps on this subject Mr. Bosvvell's suggestion is 
the best. " For my part," says he, " I think it would be pro- 
per to have epitaphs written both in a learned language and in 
the language of the country, so that they might have the ad- 
vantage of being more luiiversally understood, and, at the 
same time, be secured of classical stability." 



consistent with probability. The truth, howeyer, 
may have been, that Goldsmith, having constant- 
ly before him the example of extraordinary con- 
versational abilities in Johnson, either from the 
spirit of competition, or the ambition to excel in 
such a fascinating talent, was tempted -to a fre- 
quent display of his own powers in the same line. 
Our excessive anxiety to do any thing well, often 
defeats the end we have in view; and it is not un- 
likely that, on such occasions, this was the fate of 
Goldsmith. Yet, notwithstanding all his mistakes, 
he had gleams of eloquence ; and, although Mr. 
Boswell studies to malie him a foil to Johnson, 
there are instances among the conversations re- 
ported by that gentleman, where Goldsmith shines 
as the most rational and elegant interlocutor of the 
whole. Hence it is reasonable to conclude, that 
the accounts which have been transmitted of the 
weakness or absurdity of Goldsmith's conversation 
are greatly overcharged. Be that as it may, if the 
conversation of Goldsmith was so confused and 
inaccurate as has been generally reported, it is an 
eminent instance, among many others, in which 
the conversation of literary men has been found 
strikingly unequal to their works. It forms also 
an illustration of the observation of Cicero, that it 
is very possible for a man to think rightly, and yet 
want the power of conveying his sentiments in be- 
coming language: ^' Fieri potest ut rede quis sen- 
tiat, sed id quod sentit polite eloqui non possit." 
Perhaps the chief fault of Goldsmith in conversa- 
tion, as has been remarked by one of his biogra- 
phers, lay in his being always overhurried ; so that 
he was too apt to speak without reflection, and 
without a sufficient knowledge of the subject. He 
himself humorously used to remark, that he always 
argued best when he argued alone. The same 
circumstance was noticed by Johnson, and gave 
rise to the observation, " that no man was more 
foolish when he had not a pen in his hand, or more 
mse when he had." 

If it must be admitted that Goldsmith had no 
talent for oral display, it will not be disputed that 
in the sohtude of the closet, "when he argued 
alone," he was almost unrivalled. A celebrated 
critic remarked of him, that " whatever he com- 
posed, he did it better than any other man could." 
It has been objected to the moral essays of Gold- 
smith, that they present life under a gloom j'' as- 
pect, and leave an impression of despondency on 
the mind of the reader. Whether to paint life as 
it is, be a fault in a vn*iter, is a question that will 
admit of a considerable dispute : but it will not be 
denied, that when he pictures the woes and vani- 
ties of existence, he only repeats the lessons of ex- 
perience. It ought also to be recollected that an 
author's writings are generally a transcript of his 
own feelings. If the moral productions of Gold- 
smith are sometimes gloomy and despondent, we 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



55 



fehould take into account the circumstances under 
■which they were written: — when he was obscure 
and friendless, oppressed with want, sick of the 
past, aiad ahnost despairing of the future. The 
language of his prose works, in general, is admitted 
to be a model of perfection. His very enemies 
used to acknowledge the superiority of his taste in 
composition, and the unrivalled excellence of his 
style. It was not without reason, therefore, that 
Johnson at one time exclaimed, "Where is there 
now a man who can pen an essay with such ease 
and elegance as Goldsmith T' 

In poetry Goldsmith confessedly shines with 
great lustre. But, viewing him as a scholar, it is 
surprising how little of his imagery is drawn from 
reminiscences of the classics. His verses are ut- 
terly void of the machinery of ancient polj'theism, 
and scarcely a single mythological person is ever 
invoked by him. In truth, he seems to have had 
no partiality for the family of gods, goddesses, and 
demi-gods, and to have discarded as useless the 
whole race of fauns, satyrs, dryads, and hamadry- 
ads. He is one of those who seek to please chiefly 
by an exhibition of nature in her simplest and 
inost familiar views. From these he selects his 
objects with equal taste and discretion; and in no 
instance does he ever represent what would excite 
disgust, or cause pain. In the poetry of Goldsmith 
there is nothing that strikes us as merely ideal. 
Every thing is clear, distinct, and palpable. His 
very imagery is tangible. He draws it from ob- 
jects that act at once upon the senses, and the 
reader is never for a moment at a loss to discover 
its application. It is this that makes Goldsmith so 
easily understood, and so generally admired. His 
poetical landscapes and portraits are so many tran- 
scripts fromhving nature; while every unage, every 
thought, and every sentiment connected with them, 
have a corresponding expression of unaftected truth 
and simplicity. It was said of him by Mr. Bos 
well, that "his mind resembled a fertile but thin 
soil; there was a quick, but not a strong vegetation 
of whatever chanced to be thrown upon it. No 
deep root could be struck. The oak of the forest 
did not grow there; but the elegant shrubbery, 
and the fragrant parterre, appeared in gay suc- 
cession." This is a poetical description, and, with 
some limitation, may be admitted as an approach 
to the truth. The characteristics of Goldsmith's 
poetry are ease, softness, and beauty. He can be 
commended for the elegance of his imagery, the 
depth of his pathos and the flow of his numbers. 
He is uniformly tender and impressive, but rarely 
sublime. The commendation which he himself 
has bestowed on the poetry of Parnell may justly 
be applied to his own. " At the end of his course," 
says he, " the reader regrets that his way has been 
so short; he wonders that it gave him so little 
trouble; and so resolves to go the journey over 



again." A similar impression, or something ana- 
logous to it, is felt by every reader of the poetry 
of Goldsmith. His course has been through a rich 
and highly cultivated country, where sweet fruits 
and fragrant flowers regaled his senses at every step; 
where every object that he passed was blooming in 
beauty, and pregnant with interest ; and where he 
himself never for a moment felt any intermission 
of enjoyment. 

From the characteristics of the poet we turn to 
the qualities of the man. Goldsmith was mild and 
gentle in his manners, warm in his friendships, 
and active in his charity and benevolence. So 
strongly did he use to be affected by compassion, 
that he has been known at midnight to abandon 
his rest in order to procure relief and an asylum 
for a poor dying object who was left destitute in 
the streets. The humanity of his disposition was 
manifested on every occasion that called for its ex- 
ercise ; and so large was his liberality, that his last 
guinea was the general boundary of his munifi- 
cence. He had two or three poor authors always 
as pensioners, besides several widows and poor 
housekeepers; and when he happened to have no 
money to give the latter, he sent them away with 
shirts or old clothes, and sometimes with the con- 
tents of his breakfast table, saying, with a smile of 
satisfaction after they were gone, " Now let me 
suppose I have eaten a heartier breakfast than 
usual, and I am nothing out of pocket." His ge- 
nerosity, it is true, used often to be carried to ex- 
cess. He gave frequently on the mere impulse of 
the moment, and without discrimination. If the 
apphcants for his boimty were poor and friendless, 
it was all that he asked to know. Like Ms own 
village pastor, he overflowed vnth benevolence, and 

"Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began." 
This profuse and undistmguisMng liberality has 
-sometimes been imputed to him as a fault; but it 
at least attested the excellence of his intentions 
and the kindness of liis heart. The humanity and 
benevolence, however, that characterised the poet's 
disposition, were unhappily contaminated by a 
jealousy of the attainments and the reputation of 
others. He was feelingly conscious of tliis failing, 
and often used to complain of the uneasiness it cost 
him. In the minds of those who heard him on 
such occasions, all sense of the evil passion was 
lost in their amusement at the novelty and simph- 
city of his confessions. Vanity was another of the 
weaknesses of Goldsmith; but it was rather amus- 
ing than offensive in its operation. He was vain 
of his literary consequence, as was strongly disco- 
vered in the complaint he once made with regard 
to Lord Camden.— "I met him," said he, "at 
Lord Clare's house in the country, and he took no 
more notice of me than if I had been an ordinary 
man." 



56 



LIFE AND WRITINGS &c. 



He had also the foible of being ambitious of 
shining in such exterior accomplishments as nature 
had denied him. This was whimsically illustrated 
on one occasion, when he arrayed himself in a 
bloom-coloured coat, and sported his ungainly 
figure, with great self-complacency, in the sunshine 
in the Temple gardens. He declared to his friends, 
that his tailor was so confident of the impression 
he should make, that he had entreated him to in- 
form all inquirers of the name of the maker of the 
coat. 

Such is the amount of information wliich we 
have procured concerning Goldsmith; and we have 
o-iven it almost precisely in the words in which we 
found it. From the general tenor of his biography, 
it is evident that Goldsmith was one whose faults 
were at the worst but negative, not positive vices, 
while his merits were great and decided. He was 
no one's enemy but his own, his errors inflicted 
evil on none but himself, and were so blended with 
humorous, and even afTecting circumstances, as to 
disarm anger and conciliate kindness. Where 



eminent talent is united to spotless virtue, we are 
awed and dazzled into admiration, but our admira- 
tion is apt to be cold ; while there is something in 
the harmless infirmities of poor human nature that 
pleads touchingly to the feelings, and the heart 
yearns towards the object of our admiration, when 
we find that, like ourselves, he is mortal, and is 
frail. The epithet so often heard, and in such 
kindly tones, of "poor Goldsmith," speaks volumes. 
Few, who consider the rich compound of admira- 
ble and whimsical qualities which fonn his charac- 
ter, would wdsh to prune away its eccentricities, 
trim its grotesque luxuriance, and cUp it down to 
the decent formaUties of rigid virtue. "Let not 
his frailties be remembered," said Johnson, "he 
was a very great man." But, for our parts, we 
rather say, "let them be remembered;" for we 
question whether he himself would not feel grati- 
fied in hearing his reader, after dwelling with ad- 
miration on the proofs of his greatness, close the 
volujne with the Idnd hearted phrase, so fondly and 
famiUarly ejaculated, of "Poor Goldsmith." 



mm m^mMiiMBm^ wm 



OF 



OLIVER GOL.BSMITH. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

There are a hundred faults in this thing, and a 
hundred things might be said to prove them beau- 
ties. But it is needless. A book may be amusing 
with numerous errors, or it maybe very dull without 
a single absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in 
himself the three greatest characters upon earth. 
He is a priest, a husbandman, and the father of a 
family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready 
to obey ; as simple in affluence, and majestic in 
adversity. In this age of opulence and refinement, 
whom can such a character please? Such as are 
fond oif high life, will turn with disdain from the 
simplicity of his country fire-side. Such as mis- 
take ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his 
harmless conversation; and such as have been 
taught to deride religion, will laugh at one whose 
chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity. 
Oliver Goldsmith. 



CHAPTER I. 

The description of the family of Wakefield, in which a kin- 
dred likeness prevails, as well of minds as of persons. 

I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who 
married and brought up a large family, did more 
service than he who continued single and only 
talked of a population. From this motive, I had 
scarcely taken orders a year, before I began to tliink 
seriously of matrimony, and chose my vyife, as she 
did her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy sur- 
face, but for such quahties as would wear well. 
To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable 
woman; and as for breeding, there were few coun- 
try ladies who could show more. She could read 
any Enghsh book without much spelling; but for 
pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel 
her. She prided herself also upon being an excel- 



lent contriver in housekeeping; though I could 
never find that we gi'ew richer with all her con- 
trivances. 

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in 
fact, nothing that could make us angry with the 
world or each other. We had an elegant house 
situated in a fine country, and a good neighbour- 
hood. The year was spent in moral or nn:al 
amusements, in visiting our rich neighbours, and 
reUeving such as were poor. We had no revolu- 
tions to fear, nor fatigues to imdergo; all our ad- 
ventures were by the fire-side, and all our migra- 
tions from the blue bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the 
traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry 
wine, for wliich we had great reputation ; and I 
profess with the veracity of an historian, that I 
never knew one of them find fault with it. Our 
cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remem- 
bered their affinity, without any help from the 
herald's office, and came very frequently to see us. 
Some of them did us no great honour by these 
claims of kindred; as we had the bhnd, the maim 
ed, and the halt amongst the number. However, 
my wife always insisted, that as they were the 
same^es?i and blood, they should sit with us at 
the same table. So that if we had not very rich, 
we generally had very happy friends about us; for 
tliis remark will hold good through life, that the 
poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with 
being treated: and as some men gaze vdth admira- 
tion at the colours of a tulip, or the wings of a but- 
terfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy hu- 
man faces. However, when any one of our rela- 
tions was found to be a person of very bad chartic- 
ter, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get 
rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever took care 
to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots or 



58 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Bometimes a horse of small value, and I always 
had the satisfaction of finding he never came back 
to return them. By this the house was cleared of 
such as we did not like ; but never was the family 
of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the 
poor dependent out of doors. 

Thus we lived several years in a state of much 
happiness, not but that we sometimes had those 
little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the 
value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed 
by school boys, and my wife's custards plundered by 
the cats or the children. The 'Squire would some- 
times fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my 
sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at 
church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon 
got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, 
and usually in three or four days began to wonder 
how they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temperance, as 
they were educated without softness, so they were 
at once well formed and healthy ; my sons hardy 
and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. 
When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which 
promised to be the supports of my declining age, 
I could not avoid repeating the famous story of 
Count Abensberg, who in Henry Second's progress 
through Germany, while other courtiers came with 
their treasures, brought Ms thirty-two children, 
and presented them to his sovereign as the most 
valuable offering he had to bestow. In this man 
ner, though I had but six, I considered them as a 
very valuable present made to my country, and con 
sequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest 
son was named George, after his uncle, who left 
us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, 
I intended to call after her aimt Grissel ; but my 
wife, who during her pregnancy had been reading 
romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. 
In less than another year we had another daughter, 
.and now I was determined that Grissel should be 
her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to 
stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, 
called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names 
in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no 
hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an in- 
terval of twelve years we had two sons more. 

It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I 
saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and 
the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than 
mine. When our visiters would say, "Well, upon 
my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest chil- 
dren in the whole country;" — "Ay, neighbour," 
she would answer, "they are as Heaven made them, 
handsome enough if they be good enough; for 
handsome is that handsome does." And then she 
would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to 
conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. 
Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with 



mention it, had it not been a general topic of 
conversation in the country. Olivia, now about 
eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty, with which 
painters generally draw Hebe; open, sprightly, 
and commanding. Sophia's features were not so 
strildng at first, but often- did niore certain execu- 
tion; for they were soft, modest and alluring. The 
one vanquished by a single blow, the other by 
efforts successfully repeated. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed 
from the turn of her features, at least it was so with 
my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, 
Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected 
from too great a desire to please. Sophia even re- 
pressed excellence from her fears to offend. The 
one entertained me with her vivacity when I was 
gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. 
But these qualities were never, carried to excess in 
either, and I have often seen them exchange cha- 
racters, for a whole day together. A suit of movirn- 
ing has transformed my coquette into a prude, and 
a new set of ribands has given her younger sister 
more than natural vivacity. My eldest son George 
was bred at ,Oxford, as I intended him for one 
of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, 
whom I designed for business, received a sort 
of miscellaneous education at home. But it is 
needless to attempt describing the particular char- 
acters of young people that had seen but very little 
of the world. In short a family hkeness prevailed 
through all, and properly speaking, they had but 
one character, that of being all equally generous, 
credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 



CHAPTER II. 

Family Misfortunes. — The loss of fortune only serves to in- 
crease the pride of the worthy. 

The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly 
committed to my wife's management; as to the spi- 
ritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. 
The profits of my living, which amounted to but 
thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the or- 
phans and widows of the clergy of our diocese: 
for having a fortune of my own, I was careless of 
temporalities, and felt a secret pleasui'e in doing 
my duty without reward. I also set a resolution 
of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with 
every man in the parish, exhorting the married 
men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimo- 
ny ; so that in a few years it was a common saying, 
that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, 
a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, 
and ale-houses wanting customers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favourite 
topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its 



happiness: but there was a peculiar tenet which I 
me, that I should scarcely have remembered to made a point of supporting ; for I maintained with 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



59 



Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the 
church of England, after the death of his first 
wife, to take a second; or to express it in one word, 
I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. 

I was early initiated into this important dispute, 
on which so many laborious volumes have been 
written. I published some tracts upon the sub- 
ject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the 
consolation of thinking were read only by the hap- 
py /ew. Some of my friends called this my weak 
side; but alas! they had not hke me made it the 
subject of long contemplation. The more I re- 
flected upon it, the more important it appeared. I 
even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my 
principles: as he had engraven upon his wife's 
tomb that she was the o???y wife of William Whis- 
ton; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, 
though still living, in which I extolled her pru- 
dence, economy, and obedience till death; and hav- 
ing got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it 
was placed over the chimney-piece, where it an- 
swered several very useful purposes. In admon- 
ishing my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity 
to her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and 
constantly put her in mind of her end. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so 
often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon 
leaving college, fixed Ms affections upon the daugh- 
ter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a digni- 
tary in the church, and in circumstances to give 
her a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest 
accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was 
allowed by all (except my two daughters) to 
be completely pretty. Her youth, health and in- 
nocence, were still heightened by a complexion 
so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of 
look, as even age could not gaze on with in- 
difference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could 
make a very handsome settlement on my son, he 
was not averse to the match ; so both families lived 
together in all that harmony which generally pre- 
cedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by 
experience that the days of courtship are the 
most happy of our lives, I was willing enough 
to lengthen the period; and the various amuse- 
ments which the young couple every day shared in 
each other's company seemed to increase their pas- 
sion. We were generally awaked in the morning 
by music, and on fine days rode a hunting. The 
hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies de- 
voted to dress and study : they usually read a page, 
and tlien gazed at themselves in the glass, which 
even philosophers might own often presented the 
page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife tool* 



moved; and sometimes, with the music master's 
assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable 
concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, 
and forfeits, shortened the rest of the daj^, without 
the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of 
gaming, except backgammon, at which my old 
friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor 
can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that 
happened the last time we played together ; I only 
wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce 
ace five times running. 

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till 
at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the 
nuptials of the young cou^ple, who seemed earnest- 
ly to desire it. During the preparations for the 
wedding, I need not describe the busy importance 
of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters : 
in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, 
the completing a tract which I intended shortly to 
pubhsh in defence of my favourite principle. As 
I looked upon this as a master-piece, both for ar- 
gument and style, I could not in the pride of my 
heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wil- 
mot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approba- 
tion; but not till too late I discovered that he was 
most violently attached to the contrary opinion, 
and with good reason; for he was at that time ac- 
tually courting a fourth wife. This as m.ay be ex- 
pected, produced a dispute attended with some acri- 
mony, which threatened to interrupt our intended 
alliance : but the day before that appointed for the 
ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large. 

It was managed with proper spirit on both 
sides : he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted 
the charge; he replied and I rejoined. In the 
mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was 
called out b}' one of my relations, who with a face 
of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at 
least till my son's wedding was over. "How!" 
cried I, " relinquish the cause of truth, and let him 
be a husband, already driven to the very verge of 
absurdity. You might as well advise me to give 
up my fortune as my argument." "Your for- 
tune," returned my friend, "I am now sorry to in- 
form you is almost nothing. The merchant in 
town, in whose hands your money was lodged, has 
crone off to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is 
thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. 
I was unwilling to shock you or the family with 
the account until after the wedding : but now it 
may serve to moderate 3'our warmth in the argu- 
ment ; for, I suppose your own prudence will enforce 
the necessity of dissembling, at least till your son 
has the young lady's fortune secure." — "Well," 



the lead; for as she always insisted upon carving returned I, "if what you tell me be true, and if I 



every thing herself, it being her mother's way, she 
gave us upon these occasions the historj' of every 
dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies 
leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be re- 



am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, 
or induce me to disavow my principles. I'll go this 
moment and inform the company of my circum- 
stances : and as for the argument, I even here re- 



60 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



tract my former concessions in the old gentleman's 
favour, nor will I allow him now to be a husband 
in any sense of the expression." 

It would be endless to describe the different sen 
sations of both famihes when I divulged the news 
of our misfortune : but what others felt was slight 
to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wil- 
mot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to 
break off the match, wiis by this blow soon deter 
mined : one virtue he had in perfection, which was 
prudence, too often the only one that is left us at 
seventy-two. 



CHAPTER III. 

A Migration. — The fortunate circumstances of our lives are 
generally found at last to be of our own procuring. 

The only hope of our family now was, that the 
report of our misfortune might be malicious or pre- 
mature ; but a letter from my agent in town soon 
came with a confirmation of every particular. The 
loss of fortune to myself alone would have been 
trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for my fami- 
ly, who were to be humble without an education 
to render them callous to contempt. 

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted 
to restrain their affliction; for premature consola- 
tion is but the remembrance of sorrow. During 
this interval, my thoughts were employed on some 
future means of supporting them; and at last a 
small cm"e of iifteen pounds a year was offered me 
in a distant neighbourhood, where 1 could still en- 
joy my principles without molestation. With this 
proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to 
increase my salary by managing a little farm. 

Having taken this resolution, my next care was 
to get together the wrecks of my fortune ; and, all 
debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand 
pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My 
chief attention, therefore, was now to bring dovm 
the pride of my family to their circumstances ; fori 
well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness 
itself. " You can not be ignorant, my children," 
cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have pre- 
vented our late misfortune ; but prudence may do 
much in disappointing its effects. We are now 
poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform 
to our humble situation. Let us then, without re- 
pining, give up those splendours with wliich num- 
bers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum- 
stances that peace with which all may be happy. 
The poor live pleasantly without our help, why 
then should not we learn to live without theirsi 
No, my children, let us from this moment give up 
all pretensions to gentiUty; we have stUl enough 
left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw 
upon content for the deficiencies of fortune." 

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I deter- 



mined to send him to town, where his abilities 
might contribute to our su.pport and his own. The 
separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one 
of the most distressful circumstances attendant on 
penury. The day soon arrived on which we were 
to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking 
leave ofhis mother and the rest, who mingled their 
tears and their kisses, came to ask a blessing from 
me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, 
added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had 
now to bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried 
I, "to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, 
your great ancestor, travelled there before you. 
Take from me the same horse that was given him 
by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff, and this book 
too, it vsdll be your comfort on the way : these two 
lines in it are worth a million, ' 1 have been young, 
and now am old ; yet never saw I the righteous 
man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.' 
Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, 
my boy ; whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee 
once a-3rear ; still keep a good heart, and farewell." 
As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was 
under no apprehensions from throwing him naked 
into the amphitheatre of life ; for 1 knew he would 
act a good part, whether vanquished or victorious. 
His departure only prepared the way for our 
own, which arrived a few days afterwards. The 
leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed 
so many hours of tranquillity, was not without a 
tear which scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. 
Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that 
had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled 
us with apprehension ; and the cries of the poor, 
v.'ho followed us for some miles, contributed to in- 
crease it. The first day's journey brought us in 
safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, 
and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a 
village by the way. When we were shown a room, 
I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us 
have his company, with which he complied, as 
what he drank would increase the bill next morn- 
ing. He knew, however, the whole neighbour- 
hood to wliich I was removing, particularly 'Squire 
Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who 
lived within a few miles of the place. This gentle- 
man he described as one who desired to know little 
more of the world than its pleasures, being particu- 
larly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. 
He observed that no virtue was able to resist his 
arts and assiduity, and that scarcely a farmer's 
daughter within ten miles round, but what had 
found him successful and faithless. Though this 
account gave me some pain, it had a very different 
effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed 
to brighten with the expectation of an approacliing 
trimnph; nor was my wife less pleased and confi- 
dent of their allurements and virtue. While our 
thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



61 



the room to infonn her husband, that the strange 
gentleman, who had been two da.js in the house, 
wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his 
reckoning. " Want money!" replied the host, 
" that must be impossible ; for it was no later than 
yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to 
spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped 
through the town for dog-steahng." The hostess, 
however, still persisting in her first assertion, he 
was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he 
would be satisfied one way or another, when I beg- 
ged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger 
of so much charity as he described. With this he 
complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to 
be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were 
laced. His person was well formed, and his face 
marked with the lines of thinking. He had some- 
thing short and dry in liis address, and seemed not 
to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon 
the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid 
expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing 
a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered 
hhn my purse to satisfy the present demand. "I 
take it with all my heart, sir," repUed he, " and am 
glad that a late oversight, in giving what money I 
had about me, has shov/n me that there are still 
some men like you. I must, however, previously 
entreat being informed of the name and residence 
of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as 
possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only 
mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but the 
place to which I was going to remove. " This," 
cried he, " happens still more luckily than I hoped 
for, as I am going the same way myself, having 
been detained here two days by the floods, which I 
hope by to-morrow will be found passable." I tes- 
tified the pleasure I should have in his company, 
and jny wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he 
was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger's 
conversation, which was at once pleasing and in- 
structive, induced me to wdsh for a continuance of 
it ; but it was now high time to retire and take re- 
freshment against the fatigues of the following day. 
The next morning we all set forward together : 
my family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our 
new companion, wallted along the foot-path by the 
road-side, observing with a smile, that as we were 
ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt 
leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet 
subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trot- 
ted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the 
rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with 
philosophical disputes, which he seemed to mider- 
stand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, 
that though he was a money-borrower, he defend- 
ed his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he 
had been my patron. He now and then also in- 
formed me to whom the different seats belonged 
that lay in our view as we travelled the road. 



" That," cried he, pointing to a very magnificent 
house wliich stood at some distance, " belongs to 
Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a 
large fortune, though entirely dependent on the 
will of his uncle, Sir WilHam Thornhill, a gentle- 
man who, content with a little himself, permits his 
nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in 
town." "What!" cried I, "is my young landlord 
then the nephew of a man, whose virtues, gene- 
rosity, and singularities are so universally knownl 
I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented 
as one of the most generous yet whimsical men in 
the kingdom; a man of consummate benevolence."- 
" Something, perhaps, too much so," replied Mr. 
Burchell, " at least he carried benevolence to an 
excess when young; for his passions were then 
strong,' and as they were all upon the side of vir- 
tue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He ear- 
ly began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier 
and scholar ; was soon distinguished in the army, 
and had some reputation among men of learning. 
Adulation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone 
receive most pleasure from flattery. He was sur- 
rounded with crowds, who showed him only one 
side of their character : so that he began to lose a 
regard for private interest in universal sympathy. 
He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented Mm 
from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians 
tell us of a disorder, in wliicli the whole body is so 
exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch gives 
pain : what some have thus suffered in their per- 
sons, this gentleman felt in Iris mind. The slightest 
distress, whether real or fictitious, touched liim to 
the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sen- 
sibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed 
to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found 
numbers disposed to solicit ; liis profusions began 
to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature ; that, 
indeed, was seen to increase as the other seemed to 
decay: he grew improvident as he grew poor; and 
though he talked like a man of sense, liis actions 
were those of a fool. Still, however, being sur- 
rounded with importunity, and no longer able to 
satisfy every request that was made him, instead of 
money he gave proviises. They were all he had 
to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to 
give any man pain by a denial. By tliis he drew 
round him crowds of dependents, whom he was sure 
to disappoint, yet he wished to relieve. These 
hung upon him for a time, and left him vrith merit- 
ed reproaches and contempt. But in proportion 
as he became contemptible to others, he became 
despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon 
their adulation, and that support taken away, he 
could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, 
which he had never learned to reverence. The 
world now began to wear a different aspect; the 
flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple 
approbation. Approbation soon took the more 



62 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



friendly form of advice, and advice, when rejected, 
produced their reproaches. He now therefore found, 
that such friends as benefits had gathered round 
him, were little estimable: he now found that a 
man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of 
another. I now found, that — that — I forget what 
I was going to observe : in short, sir, he resolved to 
respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring 
his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own 
whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe 
on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained 
the age of thirty, his circumstances are more afflu- 
ent than ever. At present, his bounties are more 
rational and moderate than before ; but still he pre- 
serves the character of a humorist, and finds most 
pleasure in eccentric virtues." 

My attention was so much taken up by Mr. 
Burchell's account, that I scarcely looked forward 
as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries 
of my family, when turning, I perceived my young- 
est daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown 
from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. 
She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to 
disengage myself in time to bring her reUef. My 
sensations were even too violent to permit my at- 
tempting her rescue: she must have certainly 
perished had not my companion, perceiving her 
danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with 
some difficulty, brought her in safety to the oppo- 
site shore. By taking the current a little farther 
up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we 
had an opportunity of joming our acknowledg- 
ments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readi- 
ly imagined than described : she thanked her de- 
liverer more with looks than words, and continued 
to lean upon his arm, as if still wilhng to receive 
assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have 
the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own 
house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next 
inn, and had dined together, as Mr. Burchell was 
going to a different part of the country, he took 
leave; and we pursued our journey; my wife ob- 
serving as he went, that she liked him extremely, 
and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to 
entitle him to match into such a family as our's, 
she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I 
could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty 
strain ; but I was never much displeased with those 
harmless delusions that tend to make us more 
happy. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant hapi^inesg. 
which depends not on circumstances but constitution. 

The place of our retreat was in a little neigh- 
bourhood, consisting df farmers, who tilled their 



own grounds, and were equal strangers to opu- 
lence and poverty. As they had almost all the 
conveniencies of life within themselves, they sel- 
dom visited towns or cities, in search of superflui- 
ty. Remote from the polite, they still retained the 
primeval simplicity of manners ; and frugal by habit, 
they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. 
They wrought with cheerfulness on days of la- 
bour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness 
and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, 
sent true love-knots on Valentine morning, ate 
pancakes on Shrove-tide, showed their wit on the 
first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Mi- 
chaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, the 
whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minis- 
ter, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by 
a pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for 
our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down; 
and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made 
up in laughter. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of 
a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood 
behind, and a prattling river before : on one side a 
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted 
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having 
given a hundred pounds for my predecessor's good- 
will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my 
Kttle enclosures ; the elms and hedge-rows appear- 
ing with inexpressible beauty. My house con- 
sisted of but one story, and was covered wdth 
thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness ; the 
walls on the inside were nicely white-washed, and 
my daughters undertook to adorn them with pic- 
tures of their own. designing. Though the same 
room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only 
made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with 
the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and cop- 
pers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright 
rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably reliev- 
ed, and did not want richer furniture. There were 
three other apartments, one for my wife and me, 
another for our two daughters, within our own, 
and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the 
children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, was 
regulated in the following manner : by sun-rise we 
all assembled in our common apartment; the fire 
being previously kindled by the servant. After 
we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, 
for I always thought fit to keep up some mechani- 
cal forms of good-breeding, without which freedom 
ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to 
that Beuig, who gave us another day. This duty 
being performed, m}' son and I went to piusue our 
usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters 
employed themselves m providing breakfast, which 
was always ready at a certain time. I allowed 
half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; 
which time was taken up in innocent mirth be 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



63 



tween my wife and daughters, and in pliilosophical 
arguments between my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pm-sued 
our labours after it was gone down, but returned 
home to the expecting family ; where smiling looks, 
a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for 
our reception. Nor were we without guests : 
sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative 
neighbour, and often the blmd piper, would pay us 
a visit, and taste our gooseberry- wine ; for the mak- 
ing of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the 
reputation. These harmless people had several 
ways of being good company ; while one played, the 
other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny 
Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of Bar- 
bara Allen. The night was concluded in the man- 
ner we began the morning, my youngest boys being 
appointed to read the lessons of the day ; and he 
that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have 
a halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box. 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of 
finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not 
restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures 
against pride had conquered the vanity of my 
daughters ; yet I found them still secretly attached 
to all their former finery: they still loved laces, ri- 
bands, bugles, and catgut ; my vAfe herself retained 
a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I for- 
merly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday in particular their behaviour 
served to mortify me ; I had desired my girls the 
preceding night to be dressed early the next day ; 
for I always loved to be at church a good while be- 
fore the rest of the congregation. They punctually 
obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assem- 
ble in the morning at breakfast, down came my 
wife and daughters dressed out in all their former 
splendour- : their hair plastered up with pomatum, 
their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up 
in a heap beliind, and rustlurg at every motion. I 
could not help smilmg at their vanity, particularly 
that of my wife, from whom I expected more dis- 
cretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only re- 
source was to order my son, with an important air, 
to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the 
command ; but I repeated it with more solemnity 
than before — "Surely, my dear, you jest," cried 
my wife, "we can walk it perfectly well : we want 
no coach to carry us now.'' " You mistake, child," 
returned I, "we do want a coach ; for if we walk to 
church in this trim, the very cliildren in the parish 
will hoot after us." — " Indeed," replied my wife, " I 
always imagined that my Charles was fond of see- 
ing his children neat and handsome about him." — 
" You may be as neat as you please," interrupted 
I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all 
this is not neatness, but frippery. These rui33ings, 
and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us 
hated by all the wives of all our neighbours. No, 



my children," continued I, more gravely, " those 
gowns may be altered into something of a plainer 
cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want 
the means of decency. I do not know whether such 
flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the 
rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, 
that the nakedness of the indigent world might be 
clothed from the trimmings of the vain." 

This remonstrance had the proper eflect ; they 
went with great composure, that very instant, to 
change their dress ; and the next day I had the sa- 
tisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own re- 
quest, employed in culting up their trains into 
Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two httle 
ones, and, what was still more satisfactory, the 
gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. 



CHAPTER V. 

A new and great acquaintance introduced.— What we place 
most hopes upon, generally proves most fatal. 

At a small distance from the house, my prede- 
cessor had made a seat, overshadowed by a hedge 
of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the 
weather was fine and our labour soon finished, we 
usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive land- 
scape in the calm of the evening. Here too we 
drank tea, which was now become an occasional 
banquet ; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused a 
new joy, the preparations for it being made with no 
small share of bustle and ceremony. On these oc- 
casions our two little ones always read to us, and 
they were regularly served after we had done. 
Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements,, 
the girls sang to the guitar ; and while they thus 
formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll 
down the sloping field, that was embellished with 
blue-bells and centaury, talk of our cliildren with 
raptm-e, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both 
health and harmony. 

In tlris manner we began to find that every situa- 
tion in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures : 
every morning awaked us to a repetition of toil ; 
but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. 

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holi- 
day, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from, 
labour, that I had dravm out my family to our usual 
place of amusement, and our young musicians be- 
gan their usual concert. As we were thus en- 
gaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within 
about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and 
by its panting it seemed pressed by the hunters. 
We had not much time to reflect upon the poor 
animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and 
horsemen come sweeping along at some distance 
behind, and making the very path it had taken. I 
was instantly for returning in with my family ; but 
either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden 



64 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



motive, held my wife and daughters to their scats. 
The huntsman, who rode foremost, passed us with 
great swiftness, followed by four or five persons 
more who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young 
gentleman of a more genteel appearance than the 
rest came forward, and for a wliile regarding us, 
instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and 
giving his horse to a servant who attended, ap- 
proached us with a careless superior air. He 
seemed to want no introduction, but was going to 
salute my daughters, as one certain of a kind re- 
ception ; but they had early learned the lesson of 
looking presumption out of countenance. Upon 
which he let us know his name was Thornhill, and 
that he was owner of the estate that lay for some 
extent round us. He again therefore offered to 
salute the female part of the family, and such was 
the power of fortune and fine clothes, that he found 
no second repulse. As his address, though confi- 
dent, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and 
perceiving musical instruments lying near, he beg- 
ged to be favoured with a song. As I did not ap- 
prove of such disproportioned acquaintances, I 
winked upon my daughters in order to prevent 
their compliance ; but my hint was comiteracted by 
one from their mother ; so that, with a cheerful air, 
they gave us a favourite song of Dry den's. Mr. 
Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their per- 
formance and choice, and then took up the guitar 
himself. He played but very indifferently ; how- 
ever, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause 
with interest, and assured him that his tones were 
louder than even those of her master. At this com- 
pliment he bowed, which she returned with a cour- 
tesy. He praised her taste, and she commended 
his understanding : an age could not have made 
them better acquainted : while the fond mother, too, 
equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's stepping 
in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The 
whole family seemed earnest to please him : my 
girls attempted to entertain him vnth topics they 
thought most modern, while Moses, on the con- 
trary, gave liim a question or two from the an- 
cients, for which he had the satisfaction of being 
laughed at : my little ones were no less busy, and 
fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endea- 
vours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers from 
handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, 
and lifting up the flaps of liis pocket-holes, to see 
what was there. At the approach of evening he 
took leave ; but not till he had requested permission 
to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, 
we most readily agreed to. 

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a coun- 
cil on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, 
that it was a most fortunate hit ; for that she had 
knovm even stranger things at last brought to bear. 
She hoped again to see the day in which we might 
hold up our heads with the best of them ; and con- 



cluded, she protested she could see no reason why 
the two Miss Wrinkles should marry great for- 
tunes, and her children get none. As this last ar- 
gument was directed to me, I protested I could see 
no reason for it neithei', nor why Mr. Simkins got 
the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and 
we sat do^OTi with a blank. " 1 protest, Charles," 
cried my wife, "this is the way you always damp 
my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, 
Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new 
visiter? Don't you think he seemed to be good- 
natured?" — " Immensely so indeed, mamma," re- 
plied she, " I tliink he has a great deal to say upon 
every thing, and is never at a loss ; and the more 
trifling the subject, the more he has to say." — 
"Yes," cried Olivia, "he is well enough for a man; 
but for my part, I don't much like him, he is so 
extremely impudent and familiar ; but on the guitar 
he is shocking." These two last speeches I inter- 
preted by contraries. I found by this, that Sopliia 
internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly ad- 
mired him. — " Whatever may be your opinions of 
him, my children," cried I, " to confess the truth, 
he has not prepossessed me in his favour. Dis- 
proportioned friendsliips ever terminate iir disgust; 
and I thought, notwithstanding all Ms ease, that he 
seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between 
us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank. 
There is no character more contemptible than a 
man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I can see no 
reason why fortmie-hunting women should not be 
contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be con- 
temptible if liis views be honourable ; but if they be 
otherwise ! I should shudder but to think of that. 
It is true I have no apprehensions from the con- 
duct of my children, but I think there are some 
from his character." — I would have proceeded, but 
for the interruption of a servant from the 'squire, 
who, with liis compliments, sent us a side of veni- 
son, and a promise to dine with us some days after. 
This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully 
in Ms favour, than any tiling I had to say could ob- 
viate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with 
just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to 
their own discretion to avoid it. That vntue wMch 
requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the 
sentinel. 



CHAPTER VI. 

The Happiness of a Country Fire-side. 

As we carried on the former dispute with some 
degree of warmth, in order to accommodate mat- 
ters, it was umversally agreed, that we should have 
a part of the venison for supper; and the girls 
undertook the task with alacrity. "I am sorry," 
cried I, " that we have no neighbour or stranger to 
take a part in this good cheer : feasts of this kind 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



65 



acquire a double relish from hospitality." — "Bless 
me," cried my \vife, "here comes our good friend 
Mr. Burcliell, that saved our Sophia, and that run 
you down fairly in the argmnent." — "Confute me 
in argument, child!" cried I. "You mistake there, 
my dear : I believe there are but few that can do 
that : I never dispute your abilities at makmg a goose- 
pie, and I beg you'll leave argmnent to me." — As 
I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the house, and 
was welcomed by the family, who shook him heart- 
ily by the hand, wliile little Dick officiously reach- 
ed him a chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for 
two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, 
and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was 
able. He was known in our neighbourhood by 
the character of the poor gentleman that would do 
no good when he was young, though he was not yet 
thirty. He would at intervals talli with great good 
sense; but in general he was fondest of the com- 
pany of children, whom he used to call harmless 
little men. He was famous, I found, for singing 
them ballads, and telling them stories; and sel- 
dom went out without sometlring in his pockets 
for them; a piece of gingerbread, or a halfpenny 
wHstle. He generally came for a few days into 
our neighbourhood once a-year, and Uved upon 
the neighbours' hospitality. He sat down to sup- 
per among us, and my wife was not sparing of her 
gooseberry-wine. The tale went round; he sang 
us old songs, and gave the children the story of the 
Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient 
Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and then Fair 
Rosamond's Bower. Our cock, which always crew 
at eleven, now told us it was time for repose; but 
an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the 
stranger — all our beds were already taken up, and 
it was too late to send him to the next ale-house. 
In this dilemma little Dick offered him his part of 
the bed, if liis brother Moses would let him lie 
with him: "And I," cried Bill, "will give Mr. 
Burchell my pait, if my sisters will take me to 
theirs." — "Well done, my good children," cried 
I, "hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. 
The beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies 
to its nest; but helpless man can only find refuge 
from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger 
in this world, was he that came to save it. He 
never had a house, as if willing to see what hos- 
pitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, 
my dear," cried 1 to my wife, "give those boys a 
lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, 
because he spoke first." 

In the morning early I called out my whole fami- 
ly to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and 
our guest offering his assistance, he was accepted 
among the number. Our labours went on lightly ; 
we turned the swath to the wind. I went fore- 
most, and the rest followed in due succession. I 
5 



could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity 
of Mr. Bm-chell in assisting my daughter Sophia 
in her part of the task. When he had finished 
his own, he would join in her's, and enter into a 
close conversation : but I had too good an opinion 
of Sophia's understanding, and was too well con- 
vinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness 
from a man of broken fortune. When we were 
finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited 
as on the mght before; but he refused, as he was 
to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child 
he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our 
conversation at supper turned upon our late unfor- 
tune guest. "What a strong instance," said I, "is 
that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of 
levity and extravagance. He by no means wants 
sense, wliich only serves to aggravate his former 
folly. Poor forlorn creature, where are now the 
revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire 
and command ! Gone, perhaps^ to attend the bag- 
nio pander, grown richby liis extravagance. They 
once praised him, and now they applaud the pan- 
der ; their former raptures at his wit arc now con 
verted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and 
perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has neither the 
ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be use- 
ful." Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, 
I delivered this observation with too much acri- 
mony, which my So]3hia gently leproved. "What- 
soever his former conduct may have been, papa, 
his circumstances should exempt him from censure 
now. His present indigence is a sullicicnt pun- 
ishment for fonner folly; and I have heard my 
papa himself say, that we should never strike an 
unnecessary How at a victun over wliom Provi- 
dence holds the scourge of its resentment." — " You 
are right, Sophy," cried my son Moses, "and one 
of the ancients finely represents so malicious a 
conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Mar- 
syas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been whol- 
ly stripped off by another. Besides, I don't know 
if this poor man's situation be so bad as my father 
would represent it. We are not to judge of the 
feelings of others by what we might feel if in their 
place. However dark the habitation of the mole 
to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apart- 
ment sufficiently Ughtsome. And to confess a 
truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his sta- 
tion : for I never heard any one more sprightly 
than he was to-day, when he conversed with you." 
— This was said without the least design, however 
it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an 
affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarcely 
took any notice of what he said to her ; but that 
she behoved he might once have been a very fine 
gentleman. The readiness with which she under- 
took to vindicate herself, and lier blushing, were 
s3m.iptoms 1 did not internally approve; but I re- 
pressed my suspicions. 



C6 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



As we expected our landlord the next day, my 
wife went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat 
reading, while I taught the Uttle ones : my daugh- 
ters seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I ob- 
served them for a good while cooking something 
over the fire. I at first supposed they were assist- 
ing their mother ; but little Dick informed me in a 
whisper, that they were making a wash for the 
face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipa- 
thy to ; for I knew that instead of mending the 
complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approach- 
ed my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasp- 
ing the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly 
by accident overturned the whole composition, and 
it was too late to begin another. 



CHAPTER VII. 

A Town-wit described— The dullest fellows may leavn to be 
comical for a nisht or two. 

When the morning arrived on which we were 
to entertain our young landlord, it may be easily 
supposed what provisions were exhausted to make 
an appearance. It may also be conjectured that 
my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plu- 
mage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came 
with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. 
The servants, who were numerous, he politely or- 
dered to the next ale-house, but my wife, in the 
trimnph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them 
all; for which, by the by, our family was pinched 
for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hint- 
ed to us the day before, that he was mediing some 
proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son 
George's former mistress, this a good deal damped 
the heartiness of his reception : but accident in some 
measure relieved our embarrassment ; for one of the 
company happening to mention her name, Mr. 
Thornhill observed with an oath, that he never 
knew any thing more absurd than calling such a 
fright a beauty : " For strike me ugly," continued 
he, " if I should not find as much pleasure in choos- 
ing my mistress by the information of a lamp un- 
der the clock at St. Dunstan's." At tliis he laugh- 
ed, and so did we : — the jests of the rich are ever 
successful. Olivia too could not avoid whispering 
loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite 
fund of humour. 

After diimer, I began with my usual toast, the 
Church; for this 1 was thanked by the chaplain, 
as he said the Church was the only mistress of his 
affections. — " Come, tell us honestly. Prank," said 
the 'Squire, with his usual archness, "suppose the 
Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn 
sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no 
lawn about her, on the other, which would you be 
for?" — " For both, to be sure," cried the chaplain. 
"Right, Frank," cried the 'Squire, "for may this 



glass suffocate me but a fine girl is worth all the 
priestcraft in the creation. For what are tithes 
and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded im- 
posture, and I can prove it."—" I wish you would," 
cried my son Moses ; " and I think," continued he, 
"that I should be able to answer you." — "Very 
well, sir," cried the 'Squire, who immediately 
smoked him, and winlung on the rest of the compa- 
ny to prepare us for the sport, " if you are for a 
cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to ac- 
cept the challenge. And first, whether are you for 
managing it analogically or dialogically 7" "I am 
for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite hap- 
py at being permitted to dispute. "Good again," 
cried the 'Squire, "and firstly, of the first: I hope 
you'll not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don't 
grant me that, I can go no farther." — " Why," re- 
turned Moses, " I think I may grant that, and 
make the best of it." — " I hope too," returned the 
other, " you'll grant that a part is less than the 
whole." " I grant that too," cried Moses, " it ig 
but just and reasonable." — "I hope," cried the 
'Squire, "you will not deny, that the two angles 
of a triangle are equal to two right ones." — " No- 
thing can be plainer," returned t' other, and looked 
round with his usual importance. — "Very well," 
cried the 'Squire, speaking very quick, "the pre- 
mises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that 
the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding in a 
reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a prob- 
lematical dialogism, which in some measure proves 
that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the 
second predicable." — "Hold, hold," cried the other, 
" I deny that : Do you think I can thus tamely 
submit to such heterodox doctrines']" — "What!" 
replied the 'Squire, as if in a passion, "not sub- 
mit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you think 
Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are re- 
lated 1" " Undoubtedly," replied the other. "If 
so, then," cried the 'Squire, "answer me directly 
to what I propose: Whether do you judge the 
analytical investigation of the first part of my en- 
thymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad mi- 
nus, and give me your reasons : give me your rea- 
sons, I say, directly." — " I protest," cried Moses, 
' I don't rightly comprehend the force of your rea- 
soning; but if it be reduced to one simple proposi- 
tion, I fancy it may then have an answer." — " O 
sir," cried the 'Squire, " I am your most humble 
servant; I find you want me to furnish you with 
argument and intellects too. No, sir, there I pro- 
test you are too hard for me." This effectually 
raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the 
only dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; nor 
did he offer a single syllable more during the whole 
entertainment. 

But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had 
a very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it 
for humour, though but a mere act of the memory 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 



67 



She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman ; 
and such as consider what powerful ingredients a 
good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that 
character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with 
ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics 
of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising 
then, that such talents should win the aflTections of 
a girl, who by education was taught to value an 
appearance in herself, and consequently^ to set a 
value upon it in another. 

Upon his departure, we again entered into a de- 
liatc upon the merits of our young landlord. As 
he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it 
was no longer doubted but that she was the object 
that induced him to be our visiter. Nor did she 
seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery 
of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even 
Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the 
day, and exulted in her daughter's victory as if it 
were her own. " And now, my dear," cried she 
to me, " I'll fairly own, that it was I that instructed 
my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I 
had always some ambition, and you now see that I 
was right; for who knows how this may end?" 
" Ay, who knows that indeed !" answered I, with a 
groan : "For my part, I don't much like it: and I 
could have been better pleased with one that was 
poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his 
fortune and infidelity; for depend on't, if he be 
what I suspect him, no free-thinker shall ever have 
a child of mine." 

" Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too severe 
in this ; for heaven will never an-aign him for what 
he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has 
a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without 
his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion 
may be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that 
allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is 
purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be 
blamed for his errors, than the governor of a city 
without walls for the shelter he is obliged to aflford 
an invading enemy." 

" True, my son," cried I ; " but if the governor 
invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And 
such is always the case with those who embrace 
error. The vice does not he in assenting to the 
proofs they see ; but in being bUnd to many of the 
proofs that oflier. So that, though our erroneous 
opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we 
have been wilfully corrupt, or very, negligent in 
forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, 
or contempt for our folly." 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though 
not the argument : she observed, that severed very 
prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thiidc- 
ers, and made very good husbands ; and she knew 
some sensible girls that had skill enough to make 
converts of their spouses: "And who knows, mj 



dear," continued she, " what Olivia may be able to 
do. The girl has a great deal to say upon every 
subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled 
in controversy." 

" Why, my dear, what controversy can she have 
read?" cried I: "It does not occur tome that I 
ever put such books into her hands : you certainly 
overrate her merit." " Indeed, papa," replied Oh- 
via, " she does not : I have read a great deal of 
controversy. I have read the disputes between 
Thwackum and Square ; the controversy between 
Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and am 
now employed in reading the controversy in Reli- 
gious Courtship." "Very well," cried I, "that's 
a good girl, I find you are perfectly qualified for 
making converts ; and so go help your mother to 
make the gooseberry-pie." 



CHAPTER VIII. 

An amour, which iiroinises little good fortune, yet may be 
productive of much. 

Toe next morning we were again visited by Mr. 
Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be 
dis[)leased with the frequency of his return ; but I 
could not refuse him my company and my fire-side. 
It is true, his labour njore than requited his enter- 
tainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour, 
and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put 
hunself foremost. Besides, he had always some- 
thing amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was 
at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that 
I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dis- 
like arose from an attachment he discovered to my 
daughter : he would, in a jesting manner, call her 
his httle mistress, and when he bought each of the 
girls a set of ribands, her's was the finest. I knew 
not how, but he every day seemed to become more 
amiable, his wit to improve, and liis simpUcity to 
assume the superior airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or ra- 
ther reclined round a temperate repast, our cloth 
spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave 
cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satis- 
faction, two blackbirds answered each other from 
opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and 
pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound 
seemed but the echo of tranqmllity. " I never sit 
thus," says Sophia, " but I think of the two lovers 
so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck 
dead in each other's arms. There is something so 
pathetic in the description, that I have read it a 
hundred times with new rapture." — " In my opin- 
ion," cried my son, " the finest strokes in that de- 
scription are much below those in the Acis and 
Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands 
the use of contrast better ; and upon that figure 
artfullv managed, all strength in the pathetic de> 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



pends." — " It is remarkable," cried Mr, Burchell, 
"that both the poets you mention have equally 
contributed to introduce a false taste into their re- 
spective coimtries, by loading all their lines with 
epithet. Men of little genius foimd them most 
easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, 
like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing 
at present but a combination of luxuriant images, 
without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that 
improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. 
But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, 
you'll think it just that I should give them an op- 
portmiity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this 
remark only to have an opportunity of introducing 
to the company a ballad, wliich, whatever be its 
other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I 
have mentioned."* 

A BALLAD. 

" Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

" For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

With fainting steps and slow; 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 

Seem length'ning as I go." 

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 

" To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 

To lure thee to thy doom. 

" Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

" Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

"No flocks that range the valley free, 

To slaughter I condemn ; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits suppUed, 

And water from the spring. 

" Then, pilgrim, tui'n, thy cares forego ; 

All earth-born cares are vsrong ; 
Man wants but little here below. 

Nor wants that little long." 



• We have introduced this beautiful poem in this place, be- 
cause it appears to be too intimately connected with the story 
to be omitted with any propriety, though it is inserted among 
the rest of the doctor's poetical productions. 



Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell: 
The modest stranger lowly bends. 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care; 
The wicket, opening with a latch 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest, 
The hermit trimm'd his httle fire, 

And cheer'd his pensive guest: 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gaily press' d, and smiled; 

And, skill'd in legendary lore. 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around in sympathetic mirth 

Its tricks the kitten tries. 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling faggot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied, 
With answering care oppress'd: 

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
" The sorrows of thy breast! 

" From better habitations spum'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove 7 
Or grieve for friendship unretum'd, 

Or unregarded love 7 

" Alas! the joys that fortime brings. 

Are trifling, and decay; 
And those who prize the paltry things, 

More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

But leaves the wretch to weep! 

" And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest; 
On earth imseen, or only fovmd 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said; 
But while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betray'd. 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 



69 



Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 

" And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn," she cried; 
" Whose feet unhallow'd thus uitrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

" But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

" My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 

He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt, or feign'd a flame. 

*' Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
But never talk'd of love. 

*' In humble, simplest habit clad. 
No wealth nor power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 

" And when, beside me in the dale, 

He carol' d lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 

And music to the grove. 

" The blossom opening to the day, 
The dews of Heaven refined, 

Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
With charms inconstant shine; 

Their charms were his, but woe to me ! 
Their constancy was mine. 

" For still I tried each fickle art. 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumphed in his pain : 

" Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 



" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay ; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I." 

" Forbid it, Heaven !" the Hermit cried. 

And clasp' d her to his breast; 
The wondering fair one turned to chide — 

'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. 

" Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. 

Restored to love and thee. 

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 

And every care resign; 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that's minel 

" No, never from this hour to part, 

We'll live and love so true; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." 

While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed 
to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. 
But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the re- 
port of a gun just by us, and immediately after a 
man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take 
up the game he had killed. This sportsman was 
the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the 
blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So 
loud a report and so near, startled my daughters; 
and I could perceive that Sophia in her fright had 
thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protec- 
tion. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon 
for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ig- 
norant of our being so near. He therefore sat 
down by my youngest daughter, and sportsman- 
like, offered her what he had killed that morning. 
She was going to refuse, but a private look from 
her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, 
and accept his present, though with some reluc- 
tance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in 
a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a con- 
quest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of 
the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more pro- 
bability, that her affections were placed upon a dif- 
ferent object The chaplain's errand was to in- 
form us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music 
and refreshments, and intended that night giving 
the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass- 
plot before our door. " Nor can I deny," continued 
he, " but I have an interest in beuig first to deliver 
this message, as I expect for my reward to be hon- 



70 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



cured with Miss Sophy's hand as a partner." To 
this my girl replied, that she should have no objec- 
tion if she could do it with honour: "But here," con- 
tinued she, "is a gentleman," looking at Mr. Bur- 
chell, " who has been my companion in the task 
for the day, and it is fit he should share in its 
amusements." Mr. Burchell returned her a com- 
pliment for her intentions : but resigned her up to 
the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night 
five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His 
refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor 
could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my 
youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken for- 
tunes to one whose expectations were much greater. 
But as men are most capable of distinguishing 
merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest 
judgment of us. The two sexes seem placed as 
spies upon each other, and are furnished with dif- 
ferent abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Two Ladies of great distinction introduced — Superior finery 
ever seems to confer superior breeding. 

Mr. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and 
Sopliia consented to dance with the chaplain, when 
my little ones came running out to tell us, that the 
'Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon 
our return, we found our landlord, with a couple 
of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly 
dressed, whom he introduced as women of very 
great distinction and fashion from town. We hap- 
pened not to have chairs enough for the whole 
company; but Mr. Thornhill immediately propos- 
ed, that every gentleman should sit in a lady's lap. 
This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a 
look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was 
therefore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs : 
and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set 
at country dances, th« two gentlemen went with 
him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and 
partners vsrere soon provided. The gentleman re- 
turned with my neighbour Flamborough's rosy 
daughters, flaunting with red top-knots; but an un- 
lucky circmnstance was not adverted to — though 
the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very 
best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig 
aod round-about to perfection, yet they were total- 
ly unacquainted with country dances. This at 
first discomposed us : however, after a little shov- 
ing and dragging, they at last went merrily on. 
Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and 
tabor. The moon shone bright, Mr. Thornhill 
and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great 
delight of the spectators; for the neighbours, hear- 
ing what was going forward, came flocking about 
us. My girl moved with so much grace and vivaci- 



ty, that my wife could not avoid discovering the 
pride of her heart, by assuring me, that though the 
httle chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen 
from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard 
to be equally easy, but without success. They 
swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked; but all 
would not do : the gazers indeed owned that it was 
fine; but neighbour Flamborough observed, that 
Miss Livy's feet seemed as pat to the music as its 
echo. After the dance had continued about an 
hour, the two ladies who were apprehensive of 
catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of 
them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon 
this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she 
observed, that, by the living jingo she was all of a 
muck oy sweat. Upon our return to the house, we 
found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr. 
Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. 
The conversation at this time was more reserved 
than before. The two ladies threw my girls quite 
into the shade; for they would tallc of nothing but 
high life, and high-lived company; with other 
fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shaks- 
peare, and the musical glasses. 'Tis true they once 
or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an 
oath; but that appeared to me as the surest symp- 
tom of their distinction (though I am since inform- 
ed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable.) Their 
finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in 
their conversation. My daughters seemed to re- 
gard their superior accomphshments with envy; 
and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tip -top 
quality breeding. But the condescension of the 
ladies was still superior to their other accomplish- 
ments. One of them observed, that had Miss 
OUvia seen a little more of the world, it would 
greatly improve her. To which the other added, 
that a single winter in tovni would make her httle 
Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly as- 
sented to both; adding, that there was nothing she 
more ardently wished than to give her girls a single 
winter's polishing. To this I could not help re- 
plying, that their breeding was already superior 
to their fortune; and that greater refinement would 
only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and 
give them a taste for pleasures they had no right to 
possess. — " And what pleasures," criedMr. Thorn- 
hill, " do they not deserve to possess, who have so 
much in their power to bestowl As for my part," 
continued he, "my fortune is pretty large; love, 
hberty, and pleasure, are my maxims; but curse 
me if a settlement of half my estate could give my 
charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and 
the only favour I would ask in return would be to 
add myself to the benefit." I was not such a stran- 
ger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the 
fashionable cant to disguise the insolence of the 
basest proposal; but I made an efl!brt to suppress 
my resentment. " Sir," cried I, "the family which 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



71 



you now condescend to favour with your company, 
has been bred with as nice a sense of honour as you. 
Any attempts to injure that, may be attended with 
very dangerous consequences. Honour, sir, is our 
only possession at present, and of that last treasure 
we must be particularly careful." — I was soon sorry 
for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when 
the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore 
he commended my spirit, though he disapproved 
lay suspicions. "As to your present hint," con- 
tinued he, " I protest nothing was farther from my 
heart than such a thought. No, by all that's 
tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular siege 
was never to my taste ; for all my amours are car- 
ried by a coup-de-main." 

The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of 
the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last 
stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and 
serious dialogue upon virtue ; in this my wife, the 
chaplam, and I, soon joined: and the 'Squire him- 
self was at last brought to confess a sense of sor- 
row for his former excesses. We talked of the 
pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in 
the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well 
pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond 
the usual time to be edified by so much good con- 
versation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, 
and demanded if I had any objection to giving 
prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal; and in 
this manner the night was passed in a most com- 
fortable way, till at last the company began to think 
of returning. The ladies seemed very unwilling 
to part with my daughters, for whom they had con- 
ceived a particular affection, and joined in a re- 
quest to have the pleasure of their company home. 
The 'Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife 
added her entreaties ; the girls too looked upon me 
as if they wished me to go. In this perplexity I 
made two or three excuses, which my daughters 
as readily removed : so that at last I was obliged 
to give a peremptory refusal; for which we had no- 
thing but sullen looks and short answers the whole 
day ensuing. 



CHAPTER X. 

The family endeavours to cope with their betters. — The mise 
ries of the poor vfhen they attempt to appear above their 
circumstances. 

I NOW began to find, that all my long and pain- 
ful lectures upon temperance, simplicity and con- 
tentment, were entirely disregarded. The dis- 
tinctions lately paid us by our betters awaked that 
pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. 
Qui windows, again, as formerly, were filled with 
washes for the neck and face. The sun was 
-dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors, 
and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. 



My wife observed, that rising too early would hurt 
her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner 
would redden their noses, and she convinced me 
that the hands never looked so white as when they 
did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George's 
shirts, we now had them new-modelling their old 
gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss 
Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were 
cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole con- 
versation ran upon high life and high-lived com- 
pany, with pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the 
musical glasses. 

But we could have borne all this, had not a for- 
tune-telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sub- 
limity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than 
my girls came running to me for a shilhng a-piece 
to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, 
I was tired of being always wise, and could not 
help gratifying their request, because I loved to see 
them happy. I gave each of them a shilling; 
though for the honour of the family it must be ob- 
served, that they never went without money them- 
selves, as my wife always generously let them have 
a guinea each, to keep in their pockets, but with 
strict injunctions never to change it. After they 
had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for 
some time, I knew by their looks, upon their re- 
turning, that they had been promised something 
great. — "Well, my girls, how have you sped] Tell 
me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee apenny- 
wortM" — "I protest, papa," says the girl, "I be- 
lieve she deals with somebody that's not right; for 
she positively declared, that I am to be married to 
a 'squire in less than a twelvemonth!" — "Well, 
now Sophy, my child," said I, "and what sort of 
a husband are you to have?" "Sir," replied she, 
"I am to have a lord soon after my sister has mar- 
ried the 'squire." "How!" cried I, "is that all 
you are to have for your two shillings? Only a 
lord and a 'squire for two shillings! You fools, I 
could have promised you a prince and a nabob for 
half the money." 

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended 
with very serious effects : we now began to think 
ourselves designed by the stars to something exalt- 
ed, and already anticipated our future grandeur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I 
must observe it once more, that the hours we pass 
with happy prospects in view, are more pleasing 
than those crowned with fruition. In the first 
case, we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the 
latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to 
repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up 
for our entertainment. We looked upon our for- 
tunes as once more rising; and as the whole parish 
asserted that the 'Squire was in love with my 
daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they 
persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable 
interval, my wife had the most lucky dreams in ths 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



workl, which she took care to tell us every morning 
•with great solemnity and exactness. It was one 
night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an ap- 
])roaching wedding ; at another time she imagined 
her daughters' pockets filled with fartliings, a cer- 
tain sign of their being shortly stuffed vnih gold. 
The girls themselves had their omens. They feU 
strange kisses on their lips; they saw rings in the 
candle, piu'ses bounced from the fire, and true 
love-knots lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup. 

Towards the end of the week we received a card 
from the town ladies; in which with their compU- 
ments, they hoped to see all our family at church 
the Sunday following. All Saturday morning, I 
could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and 
daughters in close conference together, and now 
and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed 
a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspi- 
cions that some absurd proposal was preparing for 
appearing with splendour the next day. In the 
evening they began their operations in a very regu- 
.ar manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the 
siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she 
began thus: — "I fancy, Charles, my dear, we 
shall have a great deal of good company at our 
church to-morrow." — " Perhaps we may, my dear," 
returned I, "though you need be under no uneasi- 
ness about that, you shall have a sermon whether 
there be or not." — " That is what I expect," re- 
turned she; " but 1 think, my dear, we ought to 
appear there as decently as possible, for who knows 
what may happenl" " Your precautions," repUed 
I, " are highly commendable. A decent behaviour 
and appearance in church is what charms me. We 
should be devout and humble, cheerful and serene." 
"Yes," cried she, "1 know that: but I mean we 
should go there in as proper a manner as possible ; 
not altogether like the scrubs about us." " You 
are quite right, my dear," returned I, " and I was 
going to make the very same proposal. The 
proper manner of going is, to go there as early as 
possible, to have time for meditation before the 
service begins." — " Phoo, Charles," interrupted 
she, " all that is very true ; but not what I would 
be at. I mean we should go there genteelly. You 
know the church is two miles off, and I protest 1 
don't like to see my daughters trudging up to their 
pew all blowzed and red with walking, and looking 
for all the world as if they had been winners at a 
smock-race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this : 
there are our two plough horses, the colt that has 
been in our family these nine years, and his com- 
panion Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earth- 
ly thing for this month past. They are both grown 
fat and lazy. Why should not they do something 
as well as we? And let me tell you, when Moses 
has trimmed them a little, they wdll cut a very tole- 
rable figure." 

To this proposal I objected, that walking would 



be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry 
conveyance, as Blackben-y was wall-eyed, and the 
colt wanted a tail: that they had never been broke 
to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks; and 
that we had but one saddle and pillion in the 
whole house. All these objections, however, were 
overruled; so that I was obliged to comply. The 
next morning I perceived them not a httle busy in 
collecting such materials as might be necessary for 
the expedition ; but as I found it would be a busi- 
ness of time, I walked on to the church before, and 
they promised speedily to follow. I waited near 
an hour in the reading-desk for their arrival ; but 
not finding them come as expected, I was obliged 
to begin, and went through the service, not without 
some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was 
increased when all was finished, and no appear- 
ance of the family. I therefore walked back by 
the horse- way, which was five miles round, though 
the foot- way was but two, and when got about half 
way home, perceived the procession marching 
slowly forward towards the church; my son, my 
wife, and the two little ones, exalted upon one 
horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I 
demanded the cause of their delay; but I soon found 
by their looks they had met with a thousand mis- 
fortunes on the road. The horses had at first re- 
fused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was 
kind enough to beat them forward for about two 
hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps 
of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were 
obliged to stop to repair them before they could 
proceed. After that, one of the horses took it into 
his head to stand still, and neither blows nor en- 
treaties could prevail with him to proceed. He was 
just recovering from this dismal situation when I 
found them; but perceiving every thing safe, I own 
their present mortification did not much displease 
me, as it would give me many opportunities of fu- 
ture triumph, and teach my daughters more hu- 
miUty. 



CHAPTER XI. 

The family still resolve to hold up their heads. 

Michaelmas eve happening on the next day, 
we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at 
neighbour Flamborough's. Our late mortifica- 
tions had humbled us a little, or it is probable we 
might have rejected such an invitation with con- 
tempt : however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. 
Our honest neighbour's goose and dumplings were 
fine, and the lamb's wool, even in the opinion of my 
wife, who was a connoisseur, was excellent. It is 
true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so 
well. They were very long, and very dull, and all 
about himself, and we had laughed at them ten 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



73 



times before : however, we were kind enough to 
laugh at them once more. 

Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always 
fond of seeing some innocent amusement going 
forward, and set the boys and girls to blind man's 
buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the 
diversion, and it give me pleasure to think she was 
not yet too old. In the mean time, my neighbour 
and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised 
our own dexterity when we were young. Hot 
cockles succeeded next, questions and commands 
followed that, and last of all, they sat down to hunt 
the slipper. As every person may not be acquaint- 
ed with this primeval pastime, it may be necessa- 
ry to observe, that the company at this play plant 
themeslves in a ring upon the gromid, all, except 
one who stands in the middle, whose business it is 
to catch a shoe, which the company shove about 
under their hams from one to another, something 
like a weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, in 
this case, for the lady who is up to face all the 
company at once, the great beauty of the play hes 
in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on 
that side least capable of making a defence. It 
was in this manner that my eldest daughter was 
hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in 
spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a voice that 
might deafen a baUad-singer, when, confusion on 
confusion! who should enter the room but our 
two great acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney 
and Miss Carolina WOhelmina Amelia Skcggs ! 
— Description would but beggar, therefore it is 
unnecessary to describe this new mortification. 
Death ! to be seen by ladies of such high breeding 
in such vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could en- 
sue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's 
proposmg. We seemed struck to the ground for 
some time, as if actually petrified with amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, 
and finding us from home, came after us hither, as 
they were uneasy to know what accident could 
have kept us from church the day before. OUvia 
undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the 
whole in a summary way, only saying, "We were 
thrown from our horses." At which account the 
ladies were greatly concerned; but being told the 
family received no hurt, they were extremely glad : 
but being informed that we were almost killed by 
the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but hearing that 
we had a very good night, they were extremely 
glad again. NotMng could exceed their complais- 
ance to my daughters ; their professions the last 
evening were warm, but now they were ardent. 
They protested a desire of having a more lasting 
acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly at- 
tached to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Ame- 
lia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a 
greater fancy to her sister. They supported the 
conversation between themselves, while my daugh- 



ters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. 
But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is 
fond of high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of 
Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I must 
beg leave to give him the concluding part of the 
present conversation. 

"All that I know of the matter," cried Miss 
Skeggs, "is this, that it may be true, or it may not 
be true : but this I can assiu:e your ladysliip, that 
the whole rout was in amaze: his lordship turned 
all manner of colours, my lady fell into a sound, 
but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was 
hers to the last drop of his blood." 

"Well," repUed our peeress, "tliis I can say, 
that the dutchess never told me a syllable of the 
matter, and I believe her grace would keep nothing 
a secret from me. This you may depend upon as 
fact, that the next morning my lord duke cried out 
three times to his valet de chambre, Jemigan, Jer- 
nigan, Jemigan, bring me my garters." 

But previously I should have mentioned the very 
impolite beha\dour of Mr. Burchell, who, during 
this discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, 
and at the conclusion of every sentence would 
cry out fudge! an expression which displeased us 
all, and in some measure damped the rising spirit 
of the conversation. 

"Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our 
peeress, "there is nothing of this in the copy of 
verses that Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion." 
Fudge! 

"I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs; 
for he seldom leaves any thing out, as he writes 
only for his own amusement. But can your lady- 
ship favour me with a sight of them?" Fudge! 

'My dear creature," replied our peeress, "do 
you think I carry such things about me? Though 
they are very fine to be sure, and I think myself 
something of a judge ; at least I know what pleases 
myself. Indeed I was ever an admirer of all Dr. 
Burdock's little pieces ; for, except what he does, 
and our dear countess at Hanover-Square, there's 
nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in na- 
ture ; not a bit of high life among them." Fudge! 
'Your ladyship should except," says t'other, 
"your own things in the Lady's Magazine. I 
hope you'll say there's nothing low-lived there? 
But I suppose we are to have no more from that 
quarter?" Fudge! 

Why, my dear," says the lady, "you know my 
reader and companion has left me, to be married to 
Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer 
me to write myself, I have been for some time 
looking out for another. A proper person is no 
easy matter to find, and to be sure thirty pounds 
a-year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of 
character, that can read, write, and behave in com- 
pany : as for the chits about town, there is no bear- 
ing them about one." Fudge! 



T4 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



" That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, "by expe- 
rience. For of the three companions I had this 
last half-year, one of them refused to do plain- work 
an hour in a day; another thought twenty-five 
guineas a-year too small a salary, and I was obUg- 
ed to send away the third, because I suspected an 
intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear La- 
dy Blarney, virtue is worth any price ; but where 
is that to be found?" Fudge! 

My wife had been for a long time all attention 
to this discourse ; but was particularly struck with 
the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five 
guineas a-year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings 
English money, all which was in a manner going 
a-begging, and might easily be secured in the fami 
ly. She for a moment studied my looks for appro- 
bation; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that 
two such places would fit our two daughters ex 
actly. Besides, if the 'Squire had any real affec- 
tion for my eldest daughter, this would be the way 
to make her every way quaUfied for her fortune, 
My wife therefore was resolved that we should not 
be deprived of such advantages for want of assur- 
ance, and undertook to harangue for the famUy- 
" I hope," cried she, " your ladyships will pardon 
my present presumption. It is true, we have no 
right to pretend to such favours : but yet it is natu- 
ral for me to wish putting my children forward in 
the world. And I will be bold to say my two girls 
have had a pretty good education and capacity, at 
least the country can't show better. They can 
read, write, and cast accounts; they understand 
their needle, broadstitch, cross and change, and all 
manner of plain -work; they can pink, poiat, and 
frill, and know something of music; they can do 
up small clothes; work upon catgut: my eldst can 
cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty man- 
ner of telluig fortunes upon the cards." Fudge! 

When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo- 
quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few 
minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and import- 
ance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Ameha 
Skeggs condescended to observe, that the yoimg 
ladies, from the opinion she could form of them 
from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for 
such emplojrments : " But a thing of this kind, 
madam," cried she, addressing my spouse, "re- 
quires a thorough examination into characters, and 
a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, 
madam," continued she, "that I in the least sus- 
pect the young ladies' virtue, prudence and discre- 
tion; but there is a form in these things, madam, 
there is a form." 

My vdfe approved her suspicions very much, ob- 
serving that she was very apt to be suspicious her- 
self; but referred her to all the neighbours for a 
character: but this our peeress declined as unne- 
cessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill's re- 



conraiendation would be sufficient ; and upon this 
we rested our petition. 



CHAPTER XIL 

Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield. — 
Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities. 

When we were returned home, the night was 
dedicated to schemes of future conquest. Debo- 
rah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which 
of the two girls was likely to have the best place, 
and most opportunities of seeing good company. 
The only obstacle to our preferment was in ob- 
taining the 'Squire's recommendation: but he had 
already shown us too many instances of his friend- 
ship to doubt of it now. Even in bed my wife 
kept up the usual theme; "Well, faith, my dear 
Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made 
an excellent day's work of it." — " Pretty well," 
cried I, not knowing what to say. — " What! only 
pretty well!" returned she. " I think it is very 
well. Suppose the girls should come to make ac- 
quaintances of taste in town! This I am as- 
sured of, that London is the only place in the world 
for all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, 
stranger things happen every day : and as ladies of 
quality are so taken with my daughters, what will 
not men of quality be? — Entre nous, I protest I 
like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. 
However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, when they 
came to talk of places in town, you saw at once 
how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don't you 
think I did for my children there!" — " Ay," re- 
turned I, not knowing well what to think of the 
matter, " Heaven grant they may be both the bet- 
ter for it this day three months!" Tliis was one 
of those observations I usually made to impress my 
vyife with an opinion of my sagacity: for if the 
girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; 
but if any thing unfortunate ensued, then it might 
be looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversa- 
tion, however, was only preparatory to another 
scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. This was 
nothing less than that, as we were now to hold up 
our heads a little higher in the world, it would be 
proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a 
neighbouring fair, and buy us a horse that would 
carry single or double upon an occasion, and make a 
pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This 
at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly de- 
fended. However, as I weakened, my antagonist 
gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part 
with hini. 

As the fair happened on the following day, I had 
intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



75 



me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail 
upon her to permit me from home. "No, my 
dear," said she, " our son Moses is a discreet boy, 
and can buy and sell to very good advantage: you 
know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. 
He always stands out and higgles, and actually 
tires them till he gets a bargain." 

As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I 
was willing enough to intrust him with this com- 
mission; and the next morning I perceived his sis- 
ters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; 
trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking 
his hat with pins. The business of the toilet be- 
ing over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing 
him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before 
him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat 
made of that cloth they call thunder and lightning, 
which, though grown too short, was much too good 
to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling 
green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad 
black riband. We all followed him several paces 
from the door, bawling after him good luck, good 
luck, till we could see him no longer. 

He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornhill's 
butler came to congratulate us upon our good for- 
tune, saying, that he overheard his young master 
mention our names with great commendation. 

Good fortime seemed resolved not to come alone. 
Another footman from the same family followed, 
with a card for my daughters, importing, that the 
two ladies had received such pleasing accounts from 
Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after a few previous 
inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. 
"Ay," cried my wife, " I now see it is no easy mat- 
ter to get into the families of the great; but when 
one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go 
to sleep." To this piece of hmnour, for she intend- 
ed it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud 
laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satis- 
faction at this message, that she actually put her 
hand in her pocket, and gave the messenger seven- 
pence halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next that 
came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. 
He brought my little ones a pennyworth of ginger- 
bread each, which my wife undertook to keep for 
them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought 
my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they 
might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, 
when they got it. My wife was usuallyfond of a wea- 
sel-skin purse, as being the most lucky; but this by 
the by. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, 
though his late rude behaviour was in some mea- 
sure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid commu- 
nicating our happiness to him, and asking his ad- 
vice : although we seldom followed advice, we were 
all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note 
from the two ladies, he shook his head, and observ- 
ed, that an affair of tliis sort demanded the utmost 



circumspection. — This air of diffidence highly dis- 
pleased my wife. " I never doubted, sir," cried she, 
" Your readiness to be against my daughters and 
me. You have more circumspection than is want- 
ed. However, I fancy when we come to ask ad- 
vice, we will apply to persons who seem to have 
made use of it themselves." — "Whatever my own 
conduct may have been, madam," repUed he, " is 
not the present question; though as I have made 
no use of advice myself, I should in conscience 
give it to those that will." — As I was apprehensive 
this answer might draw on a repartee, making up 
by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the sub- 
ject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our 
son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night- 
fall. — " Never mind our son," cried my wife, "de- 
pend upon it he knows what he is about. I'll war- 
rant we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. 
I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze 
one. I'll tell you a good story about that, that will 
make you split your sides with laughing. — But as 
I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and 
the box at his back." 

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and 
sweating xmder the deal box, which he had strapped 
round his shoulders like a pedler. — "Welcome, 
welcome, Moses: well, my boy, what have you 
brought us from the fair?" — " I have brought you 
myself," cried IMoses, with a sly look, and resting 
the box on the dresser. — " Ah, Moses," cried my 
wife, " that we Itnow ; but where is the horse?" " I 
have sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds 
five shillings and twopence." — "Well done, my 
good boy," returned she; "I knew you would 
touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds 
five shillings and two pence is no bad day's work. 
Come let us have it then." — " I have brought back 
no money," cried Moses again. " I have laid it all 
out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bun- 
dle from his breast : " here they are ; a gross of green 
spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." — 
" A gross of green spectacles !" repeated my wife in 
a faint voice. "And you have parted with the 
colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross of 
green paltry spectacles!" — "Dear mother,'? cried 
the boy, "why won't you listen to reason? I had 
them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought 
them. The silver rims alone will sell for double 
the money." — " A fig for the silver rims," cried 
my wife in a passion : "I dare swear they won't 
sell for above half the money at the rate of broken 
silver, five shilUngs an ounce." — "You need be 
under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the 
rims, for they are not worth sixpence ; for I per- 
ceive they are only copper varnished over." — 
" What," cried my wife, " not silver ! the rims not 
silver!" "No," cried I, "no more silver than your 
saucepan." — "And so," returned she, "we have 
parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of 



% 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen 
cases! A murrain take such trumpery. The 
blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have 
known his company better." — " There, my dear," 
cried I, " you are wrong, he should not have known 
them at all."— " Marry, hang the idiot," returned 
she, " to bring me such stuff; if I had them I would 
throw them in the fire." " There again you are 
wrong, my dear," criedl; "for though they be cop- 
pel^ we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, 
you know, are better than notliing." 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was unde- 
ceived. He now saw that he had been imposed 
upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his 
figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I there- 
fore asked the circumstance of his deception. He 
sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in 
search of another. A reverend looking man brought 
him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell. 
"Here," continued Moses, "we met another man, 
TCry well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty 
pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money, 
and would dispose of them for a third of the value. 
The first gentleman, who pretended to be my 
friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned 
me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. 
Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as 
they did me, and so at last we were persuaded to 
buy the two gross between us." 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the confi- 
dence to give disagreeable advice. 

Our family had now made several attempts to be 
fine ; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each 
as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the 
advantage of every disappointment, to improve their 
good sense in proportion as they were frustrated in 
ambition. " You see, my children," cried I, " how 
little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the 
world, in coping with our betters. Such as are 
poor, and will associate with none but the rich, are 
hated by those they avoid, and despised by those 
they follow. Unequal combinations are always 
disadvantageous to the weaker side : the rich having 
the pleasure, and the poor the inconveniencies that 
result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and 
repeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for 
the good of the company." 

" Once upon a time," cried the child, " a giant 
and a dwarf were friends, and kept together, 
They made a bargain that they would never for- 
sake each other, but go seek adventures. The first 
battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the 
dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the 
champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen 



very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly 
struck off the poor dwarf's arm. He was now in 
a woful plight; but the giant coming to his assist- 
ance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on 
the plain, and the dwarf cut off the dead man';? 
head out of spite. They then travelled on to ano- 
ther adventure. This was against three bloody- 
minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel 
in distress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now 
as before; but for all that struck the first blow, 
which was returned by another, that knocked out 
Ms eye ; but the giant was soon up with them, and 
had they not fled, would certainly have killed them 
every one. They were all very joyful for this vic- 
tory, and the damsel who was reheved fell in love 
with the giant, and married him. They now tra- 
velled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met 
with a company of robbers. The giant, for the 
first time was foremost now; but the dwarf was 
not far behind. The battle was stout and long. 
Wherever the giant came, all fell before him; but 
the dwarf had like to have been killed more than 
once. At last the victory declared for the two ad- 
venturers; but the dwarf lost his leg. The dwarf 
was now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while 
the giant was without a single wound. Upon 
which he cried out to his little companion, " My 
little hero, this is glorious sport ! let us get one vic- 
tory more, and then we shall have honour for ever." 
" No," cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown 
wiser, "no, I declare off; I'll fight no more: for I 
find in every battle that you get all the honour and 
rewards, but all the blows fall upon me." 

" I was going to moralize this fable, when our 
attention was called off to a warm dispute between 
my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' in- 
tended expedition to town. My wife very stren- 
uously insisted upon the advantages that would re- 
sult from it; Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dis- 
suaded her with great ardour, and I stood neuter. 
His present dissuasions seemed but the second part 
of those which were received with so ill a grace in 
the morning. The dispute grew high, while poor 
Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked 
louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter from 
a defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her ha- 
rangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : 
" she knew," she said, " of some who had their own 
secret reasons for what they advised; but, for her 
part, she wished such to stay away from her house 
for the future." — " Madam," cried Burchell, with 
looks of great composure, which tended to inflame 
her the more, " as for secret reasons, you are right : 
I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, 
because you are not able to answer those of which 
I make no secret: but I find my visits here are be- 
come troublesome; I'll take my leave therefore now, 
and perhaps come once more to talce a final fare- 
well when I am quitting the country." Thus say- 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



77 



ing, he took up his hat. nor could the attempts of 
Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his pre- 
cipitancy, prevent his going. 

When gone, we all regarded each other for some 
minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew her- 
self to be the cause, strove to hide her concern 
with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which 
I was wilUng to reprove: " How, woman," cried I 
to her, "is it thus we treat strangers'? Is it thus we 
return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that 
these were the harshest words, and to me the most 
unpleasing that ever escaped your lips!" — "Why 
would he provoke me thenl" replied she; "but I 
know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He 
would prevent my girls from going to town, that 
he may have the pleasure of my youngest daugh- 
ter's company here at home. But whatever hap- 
pens, she shall choose better company than such 
low-lived fellows as he." — " Low-lived, my dear, do 
you call himi" cried I ; "it is very possible we may 
mistake tliis man's character, for he seems upon 
some occasions the most finished gentleman I ever 
knew. — Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever 
given you any secret instances of his attachment?" 
" His conversation vnth me, sir," replied my daugh- 
ter, " has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. 
As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I re- 
member to have heard him say, he never knew a 
woman who could find merit in a man that seemed 
poor." " Such, my dear," cried I, "is the com- 
mon cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I 
hope you have been taught to judge properly of 
such men, and that it would be even madness to 
expect happiness from one who has been so very 
bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I 
have now better prospects for you. The next win- 
ter, which you will probably spend in tovwi, will 
give you opportimities of making a more prudent 
choice." 

WTiat Sophia's reflections were upon this occa- 
sion I can't pretend to determuie; but I was not 
displeased at the bottom, that we were rid of a guest 
from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of 
hospitality went to my conscience a Uttle; but I 
quickly silenced that monitor by two or three spe- 
cious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile 
me to myself. The pain which conscience gives 
the man who has already done wrong, is soon got 
over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it 
has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has 
justice enough to accuse. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Fresh Mortifications or ademonsti'ation that seeming Calami- 
ties may be real Blessings. 

The journey of my daughters to town was now 
resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly promis- 



ed to inspect their conduct himself, and inform \19 
by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought in- 
dispensably necessary that their appearance should 
equal the greatness of their expectations; which 
could not be done without expense. We debated 
therefore in full council what were the easiest 
methods of raising money, or more properly speak- 
ing, what we could most conveniently sell. The 
deliberation was soon finished; it was found that 
our remaining horse was utterly useless for the 
plough without his companion, and equally unfit 
for the road, as wanting an eye; it was therefore 
determined that we should dispose of Mm for the 
purposes above mentioned, at the neighboiuring 
fair, and to prevent imposition, that I should go 
with him myself. Though this was one of the 
first mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had 
no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. 
The opinion a man forms of his own prudence is 
measured by that of the company he keeps ; and as 
mine was mostly in the family way, I had conceiv- 
ed no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wis- 
dom. My wife, however, next morning, at part- 
ing, after I had got some paces from the door, 
called me back, to advise me in a whisper, to have 
all my eyes about me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the 
fair, put my horse through all his paces; but for 
some time had no bidders. At last a chapman ap- 
proached, and after he had for a good while examin- 
ed the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he 
would have nothing to say to him : a second came 
up, but observing he had a spavin, declared he 
would not take him for the driving home : a third 
perceived he had a windgall, and would bid no 
money : a fourth knew by his eye that he had the 
botts : a fifth wondered what a plague 1 could do 
at the fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that 
was only fit to be cut up for a dog-kennel. By 
this time I began to have a most hearty contempt 
for the poor animal myself, and was almost asham- 
ed at the approach of every customer; for though I 
did not entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet 
I reflected that the number of witnesses was a 
strong presumption they were right ; and St. Grego- 
ry upon Good Works, professes himself to be of 
the same opinion. 

I was in this mortifying situation, when a bro- 
ther clei;gyman, an old acquaintance, who had also 
business at the fair, came up, and shaking me by 
the hand, proposed adjomrning to a public-house, 
and taking a glass of whatever we could get. I 
readily closed with the offer, and entering an ale- 
house we were shown into a Uttle back room, 
where there was only a venerable old man, who sat 
wholly intent over a large book, which he was 
reading. I never in my life saw a figure that pre- 
possessed me more favourably. His locks of silver 
gray venerably shaded his temples, and his green 



78 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS- 



old age seemed to be the result of health and benevo 
lence. However, his presence did not interrupt our 
conversation : my friend and I discoursed on the va- 
rious turns of fortune we had met ; the Whistonian 
controversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon's 
reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. 
But GUI attention was in a short time taken off by 
the appearance of a youth, who entering the room, 
respectfully said something softly to the old stranger. 
" Make no apologies, my child," said the old man, 
" to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow- 
creatures; take this, I wish it were more; but five 
pounds will relieve your distress, and you are wel- 
come." The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, 
and yet his gratitude was scarcely equal to mine. 
I could have hugged the good old man in my arms, 
his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to 
read, and we resumed our conversation, until my 
companion, after some time, recollecting that he 
had business to transact in the fair, promised to be 
soon back, adding, that he always desired to have 
as much of Dr. Primrose's company as possible. 
The old gentleman hearing my name mentioned, 
seemed to look at me with attention for some time, 
and when my friend was gone, most respectfully 
demanded if I was any way related to the great 
Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had 
been the bulwark of the church. Never did my 
heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. 
"Sir," cried I, " the applause of so good a man, as 
1 am sure you are, adds to that happiness in my 
hreast which your benevolence has already excited. 
You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the 
monogamist, whom you have been pleased to call 
great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who 
has so long, and it would ill become me to say suc- 
cessfully, fought against the deuterogomy of the 
age." — " Sir," cried the stranger, struck with awe, 
" I fear I have been too famihar; but you'll forgive 
my curiosity, sir: I beg pardon." — " Sir," cried I, 
grasping his hand, " you are so far from displeas- 
ing me by your famiharity, that I must beg you'D 
accept my friendship, as you already have my es- 
teem." — " Then with gratitude I accept the oifer," 
cried he, squeezing me by the hand, " thou glorious 
pillar of unshaken orthodoxy! and do I behold — " 
I here interrupted what he was going to say; for 
thovigh, as an author, I could digest no small share 
of flattery, yet now my modesty would pennit no 
more. However, no lovers in romance ever ce- 
mented a more instantaneous friendship. We 
talked upon several subjects: at first I thought he 
seemed rather devout than learned, and began to 
think he despised all hiunan doctrines as dross. 
Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem ; for I 
had for some time begun privately to harbour such 
an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to 
observe, that the world in general began to be 
blamably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and fol- 



lowed human speculations too much. — "Ay sir," 
repUed he, as if he had reserved all his learning to 
that moment, " ay, sir, the world is in its dotage, 
and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has 
puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medley 
of opinions have they not broached upon the crea- 
tion of the world 1 Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Be- 
Tosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it 
in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon 
ara kai utelutaion to 'pan, which imply that all 
things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho 
also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon- 
Asser, — Asser being a Syriac word usually appli- 
ed as a surname to the kings of that country, as 
Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, — he, I saj', 
formed a conjecture equally absurd; for as we usu- 
ally say, ek to biblion kuhernefes^ wliich implies 
that books will never teach the world ; so he at- 
tempted to investigate But, sir, I ask pardon, I 

am straying from the question." — That he actual- 
ly was; nor could I for my life see how the crea- 
tion of the world had any thing to do with the 
business I was talking of; but it was sufficient to 
show me that he was a man of letters, and I now 
reverenced him the more. I was resolved therefore 
to bring him to the touchstone; but he was too 
mild and too gentle to contend for victory. When- 
ever I made an observation that looked like a 
challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake 
his head, and say nothing; by wliich I understood 
he could say much, if he thought proper. The 
subject therefore insensibly changed from the 
business of antiquity to that which brought us 
both to the fair: mine, I told him, was to sell a 
horse, and very luckily indeed, his was to buy one 
for one of his tenants. My horse was soon pro- 
duced, and in fine we struck a bargain. Nothing 
now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly 
pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change 
it. Not being in a capacity of complying with this 
demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, 
who made liis appearance in a very genteel hvery. 
" Here, Abraham," cried he, "go and get gold for 
tliis; you'll do it at neighbour Jackson's or any 
where." While the fellow was gone, he enter- 
tained me with a pathetic harangue on the great 
scarcity of silver, which I imdertook to improve, by 
deploring also the gi'eat scarcity of gold; so that by 
the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed 
that money was never so hard to be come at as 
now. Abraham returned to inform us, that he had 
been over the whole fair, and could not get change, 
though he had offered half a crown for doing it. 
This was a veiy great disappointment to us all ; 
but the old gentleman, having paused a Uttle, ask- 
ed me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in my 
part of the country ? Upon replying that he was 
my next-door neighbour; "If that be the case 
then," returned he, " I believ&we shall deal. You 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



79 



shall have a draft upon him, payable at sight; and 
let me tell you, he is as warm a man as any within 
five miles round him. Honest Solomon and I have 
been acquainted for many years together. I remem- 
ber 1 always beat Mm at three jumps; but he could 
hop on one leg farther than I." A draft upon my 
neighbour was to me the same as money ; for I was 
sufficiently convinced of his ability. The draft was 
signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenkin- 
son, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and 
my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well 
pleased with each other. 

After a short interval, being left to reflection, I 
began to recollect that I had done wrong in taking 
a draft from a stranger, and so prudently resolved 
upon following the purchaser, and having back my 
horse. But this was now too late : I therefore 
made directly homewards, resolving to get the draft 
changed into money at my friend's as fast as pos- 
sible. I fotmd my honest neighbour smoking his 
pipe at his own door, and informing him that I had 
a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. "You 
can read the name, I suppose," cried I, "Ephraim 
Jenkinson." "Yes," returned he, "the name is 
written plain enough, and I know the gentleman 
too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. 
This is the very same rogue who sold us the spec- 
tacles. Was he not a venerable looking man, with 
gray hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes 1 And 
did he not talk a long string of learning about 
Greek, and cosmogony, and the world 1" To this 
I replied with a groan. " Ay," continued he, " he 
has but that one piece of learning in the world, and 
he always talks it away whenever he finds a scho- 
lar in company ; but I know the rogue, and will 
catch him yet." 

Though 1 was already sufficiently mortified, my 
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife 
and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid 
of returning to school, there to behold the master's 
visage, than I was of going home. I was deter- 
mined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first 
falling into a passion myself. 

But, alas I upon entering, I found the family no 
way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were 
all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that 
day to inform them, that their journey to town was 
entirely over. The two ladies having heard re- 
ports of us from some malicious person about us, 
were that day set out for London. He could nei- 
ther discover the tendency, nor the author of these; 
but whatever they might be, or whoever might have 
broached them, he continued to assure our family 
of his friendship and protection. I found, there- 
fore, that they bore my disappointment with great 
resignation, as it was ecfipsed in the greatness of 
their own. But what perplexed us most, was to 
think who could be so base as to asperse the cha 
racter of a family so harmless as ours, too humble 



to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create dis- 
gust. 



CHAPTER XV. 

All Mr. Burchell'a villany at once detected.— The folly of being 
over-wise. 

That evening, and a part of the following day, 
was employed in fruitless attempts to discover our 
enemies : scarcely a family in the neighbourhood 
but incurred our suspicions, and each of us had 
reasons for our opinion best known to ourselves. 
As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, 
who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter- 
case, which he found on the green. It was quickly 
known to belong to Mr. Burchell, with whom it 
had been seen, and, upon examination, contained 
some hints upon different subjects ; but what par- 
ticularly engaged our attention was a sealed note 
superscribed. The copy of a letter to be sent to the 
two ladies at Thornhill-castle. It instantly occur- 
red that he was the base mformer, and we deUbe- 
rated whether the note should not be broke open. 
I was against it ; but Sophia, who said she was 
sure that of all men he would be the last to be 
guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being 
read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the 
family, and at their joint soUcitation I read as fol- 
lows : 

"Ladies, 

" The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to 
the person from whom this comes : one at least the 
friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being 
seduced. I am informed for a truth that you have 
some intention of bringing two young ladies to 
town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the 
character of companions. As I would neither have 
simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, 
I must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety 
of such a step will be attended witli dangerous 
consequences. It has never been my way to treat 
the infamous or the lewd with severity ; nor should 
1 now have taken this method of explaining myself, 
or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take 
therefore the admonition of a friend, and seriously 
reflect on the consequences of introducing infamy 
and vice into retreats, where peace and innocence^ 
have hitherto resided." 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed; 
indeed something applicable to both sides in this 
letter, and its censures might as well be referred to 
those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the 
malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no 
farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear 
me to the end, but railed at the writer with unre- 
strained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, 



80 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at liis base- 
ness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the 
vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met 
with ; nor could I account for it in any other man- 
ner, than by imputing it to his desire of detaining 
my youngest daughter in the country, to have the 
more frequent opportunities of an interview. In 
this manner we aU sat rmninating upon schemes 
of vengeance, when our other httle boy came run- 
ning in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approach- 
ing at the other end of the field. It is easier to 
conceive than describe the comphcated sensations 
which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and 
the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though 
our intentions were only to upbraid him with his 
ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a man- 
ner that wovdd be perfectly cutting. For this pur- 
pose we agreed to meet Iiim with our usual smiles ; 
to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary 
kindness ; to amuse him a Uttle ; and then, in the 
midst of the flattering calm, to burst upon him like 
an earthquake, and overwhelm him with a sense 
of his own baseness. TMs being resolved upon, 
my wife undertook to manage the business herself, 
as she really had some talents for such an under- 
taking. We saw him approach ; he entered, drew 
a chair, and sat dovra. — "A fine day, Mr. Burch- 
eU." — "Avery fine day, doctor; though I fancy 
we shall have some rain by the shooting of my 
corns." — " The shooting of your horns !" cried my 
wife in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked par- 
don for being fond of a joke. — " Dear madam," 
replied he, " I pardon you with all my heart, for I 
protest I should not have thought it a joke had you 
not told me." — "Perhaps not, sir," cried my wife, 
winking at us ; " and yet I dare say you can tell us 
how many jokes go to an ounce." — " I fancy, ma- 
dam," returned BurcheU, "you have been reading 
a jest book this moriung, that ounce of jokes is so 
very good a conceit ; and yet, madam, I had rather 
see half an ounce of understanding." — "IbeUeveyou 
might," cried my wife, stUl smiling at us, though 
the laugh was against her ; "and yet I have seen 
some men pretend to understanding that have very 
little." — " And no doubt," returned her antagonist, 
"you have known ladies set up for wit that had 
none." I quickly began to find that my udfe was 
likely to gain but little at this business ; so I re- 
solved to treat him in a style of more severity my- 
self. " B oth wit and understandin g, " cried I, " are 
trifles without integrity ; it is that which gives value 
to every character. The ignorant peasant without 
fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ; 
for what is genius or courage without a heart? 
An honest man is the noblest work of GodP 

" I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," 
returned Mr. Bm'chell, " as very unworthy a man 
of genius, and a base desertion of his own superi- 
ority. As the reputation of books is raised, not by 



their freedom from defect, but the greatness of their 
beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for 
their exemption from fault, but the size of those 
virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may 
want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and 
the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these 
the low mechanic, who laboriously plods through 
life without censure or applause 7 We might as 
well prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flem- 
ish school to the erroneous but sublime animations 
of the Roman pencil." 

"Sir," replied I, " your present observation is 
just, when there are shining virtues and minute 
defects ; but when it appears that great vices are 
opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary vir- 
tues, such a character deserves contempt." 

" Perhaps," cried he, "there may be some such 
monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to 
great virtues ; yet in my progress through hfe, I 
never yet found one instance of their existence : on 
the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the 
mind was capacious, the alfections were good. And 
indeed Providence seems kindly our friend in this 
particular, thus to debilitate the understanding 
where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power, 
where there is the will to do mischief. This rule 
seems to extend even to other animals : the Uttle 
vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cow- 
ardly, whilst those endowed with strength and 
power are generous, brave, and gentle." 

"These observations sound well," returned J, 
" and yet it would be easy this moment to point 
out a man," and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon 
him, " whose head and heart form a most detesta- 
ble contrast. Ay, sir," continued I, raising my 
voice, " and I am glad to have this opportunity of 
detectuig him in the midst of his fancied security. 
Do you know this, sir, this pocket-book?" — "Yes, 
sir, returned he, with a face of impenetrable as- 
surance, " that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad 
you have found it." — " And do you know," cried 
I, "this letter? Nay, never falter, man; but look 
me full in the face: I say, do you know this letter?" 
"That letter," returned he: "yes, it was I that 
VTi-ote that letter." — "And how could you," said 
I, " so basely, so ungratefully presmne to write 
tliis letter?" — "And how came you," repUed he 
with looks of unparalleled effrontery, " so basely to 
presume to break open this letter? Don't you know, 
now, I could hang you all for this? All that I 
have to do is to swear at the next justice's, that 
you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of 
my pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this 
door." This piece of unexpected insolence raised 
me to such a pitch, that I could scarce govern my 
passion. " Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no 
longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness ! be- 
gone, and never let me see thee again ! Go from 
my door, and the only punishment I wish thee is 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



81 



an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient 
tormentor!" So saying, I threw him his pocket- 
book, which he took up with a smile, and shutting 
the clasps with the utmost composure, left us quite 
astonished at the serenity of his- assurance. My 
wife was particularly enraged that nothing could 
make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of 
his villanies. " My deal'," cried 1, willing to calm 
those passions that had been raised too high among 
us, " we are not to be surprised that bad men want 
shame; they only blush at being detected in doing 
good, but glory in their vices." 

" Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at 
first companions, and in the beginning of their 
journey, inseparably kept together. But their 
union was soon found to be disagreeable and in- 
convenient to both : Guilt gave Shame frequent un- 
easiness, and Shame often betraj^ed the secret con- 
spiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement there- 
fore, they at length consented to part for ever. 
Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake 
Fate, that went before in the shape of an execu- 
tioner; but Shame being naturally timorous, re- 
turned back to keep company with Virtue, which 
in the beginning of their journey they had left 
behind. Thus, my children, after men have tra- 
velled through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes 
them, and returns back to wait upon the few vir- 
tues they have still remaining." 



CHAPTER XVI. 

The family use Art, which is opposed with still greater. 

Whatever might have been Sophia's sensa- 
tions, the rest of the family was easily consoled for 
Mr. Burchell's absence by the company of our 
landlord, whose visits now became more frequent, 
and longer. Though he had been disappointed in 
procuring my daughters the amusements of the 
town as he designed, he took every opportunity of 
supplying them with those little recreations which 
our retirement would admit of. He usually came 
in the morning, and while my son and I followed 
our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at 
home, and amused them by describing the town, 
with every part of wliich he was particularly ac- 
quainted. He could repeat all the observations 
that were retailed in the atmosphere of the play- 
houses, and had all the good things of the high wits 
by rote, long before they made their way into the 
jest-books. The intervals between conversation 
were employed in teaching my daug?iters piquet, or 
sometimes in setting my two little ones to box, to 
make them sharp, as he called it : but the hopes 
of having him for a son-in-law, in some measure 
blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be 
owned, that my wife laid a thousand schemes to 
6 



entrap him; or, to speak more tenderly, used every 
art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the 
cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by 
Olivia; if the gooseberry-wine was well knit, the 
gooseberries were of her gathering: it was her 
fingers which gave the pickles their peculiar gi-een ; 
and in the composition of a pudding, it was her 
judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the 
poor woman would sometimes tell the 'Squire, that 
she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, 
and would bid both stand up to see which was 
tallest. These instances of cunning, which she 
thought impenetrable, yet which every body saw 
through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who 
gave every day some new proofs of his passion, 
which, though they had not arisen to proposals of 
marriage, yet we thought fell but httle short of it ; 
and his slowness was attributed sometimes to na- 
tive bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of offend- 
ing his uncle. An occurrence, however , which 
happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt, that he 
designed to become one of our family ; my wife 
even regarded it as an absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters happening to return a 
visit to neighbour Flamborough's, found that family 
had lately got their pictures drawn by a limner, 
who travelled the country, and took likenesses for 
fifteen shillings a-head. As this family and ours 
had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our 
spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, 
and notwithstanding all I could sa}', and I said much, 
it was resolved that we should have our pictures 
done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner, — 
for what could I do? our next deliberation was, to 
show the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. 
As for our neighbour's family, there were seven 
of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, 
a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no 
composition in the world. We desired to have 
something in a brighter style, and, after many de- 
bates, at length came to an xmanimous resolution 
of being drawn together in one large historical 
family piece. This would be cheaper, since one 
frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely 
more genteel; for all families of any taste were 
now drawn in the same manner. As we did not 
immediately recollect an liistorical subject to hit us, 
we were contented each with being drawn as inde- 
pendent historical figures. My wife desired to be 
represented as Venus, and the painter was desired 
not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomach- 
er and hair. Her two little ones were to be as 
Cupids by her side, while I, in my gown and band, 
was to present her with my books on the Whis- 
tonian controversy. Ohvia would be dravtm as an 
Amazon sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in 
a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip 
in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, 
with as many sheep as the painter could put in 



83 



GOLDSMITIS'S WORItS. 



for nothing; and Moses waste be dressed out with 
a hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased 
the 'Squire, that he insisted as being put in as one 
of the family in the character of Alexander the 
Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by 
us all as an indication of his desire to be introduced 
into the family, nor could we refuse Ms request. 
The painter was therefore set to work, and as he 
wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than 
four days the whole was completed. The piece 
was large, and it must be owned he did not spare 
his colours ; for which my wife gave him great cn- 
comiams. We were all perfectly satisfied with 
his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance 
had not occurred till the picture was finished, 
which now struck us with dismay. It was so very 
large that we had no place in the house to fix it. 
How Ave all came to disregard so material a point 
is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all 
greatly remiss. The picture, therefore, instead of 
gratifying our vanitjr, as we hoped, leaned, m a 
most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, 
where the canvass was stretched and painted, 
much too large to be got through any of the doors, 
and the jest of all our neighbours. One compared 
it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be 
removed ; another thought it more resembled a 
reel in a bottle : some wondered how it could be 
got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got 
in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it ef- 
fectually raised more malicious suggestions in ma- 
ny. The ' Squire's portrait being found united with 
ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. 
Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our ex- 
pense, and our tranquillity was continually dis- 
turbed by persons who came as friends to tell us 
what was said of us by enemies. These reports 
we always resented with becoming spirit; but scan- 
dal ever improves by opposition. 

We once again therefore entered into a consul- 
tation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, 
and at last came to a resolution which had too 
much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It 
was this : as our principal object was to discover 
the honour of Mr. Thornhill's addresses, my wife 
undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his 
advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest 
daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in- 
duce Mm to a declaration, it was then resolved to 
terrify him with a rival. To this last step, how- 
ever, I would by no means give my consent, till 
Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that 
she would marry the person provided to rival him 
upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it, by 
taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, 
which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did 
not entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill 



came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the 
way, in order to give their mamma an opportunity 
of putting her scheme in execution; but they only 
retired to the next room, whence they could over- 
hear the whole conversation. My wife artfully in- 
troduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss 
Flamboroughs was like to have a Very good match 
of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 'Squire assent- 
ing, she proceeded to remark, that they who had 
warm fortunes were always sure of getting good 
husbands : " But heaven help," continued she, 
" the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, 
Mr. Thornhill 1 or what signifies all the virtue, and 
all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self- 
interesf] It is not, what is she? but what has she? 
is all the cry." 

"Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the 
justice, as well as the novelty of your remarks, and 
if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should 
then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without 
fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first 
for whom I would provide." 

"Ah, sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased 
to be facetious: but I wish I were a queen, and 
then I know where my eldest daughter should look 
for a husband. But, now that you have put it into 
my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you re- 
commend me a proper husband for her? she is now 
nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, 
and, in my humble opinion, does not want for 
parts." 

" Madam," replied he, " if I were to choose, I 
would find out a person possessed of every accom- 
plishment that can make an angel happy. One 
with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such, 
madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper hus- 
band." " Ay, sir," said she, " but do you know 
of any such person?" — "No, madam," returned 
he, "it is impossible to know any person that de- 
serves to be her husband : she's too great a treasure 
for one man's possession; she's a goddess! Upon 
my soul, I speak what I think, she's an angel." — 
"Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor 
girl : but we have been thinldng of marrying her 
to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, 
and who wants a manager : you know whom I 
mean. Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thorn- 
hill, able to give her good bread ; and who has se- 
veral times made her proposals (which was actually 
the case): but, sir," concluded she, "I should be 
glad to have your approbation of our choice." — 
"How! madam," replied he, "my approbation! 
My approbation of such a choice! Never. What ! 
sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, 
to a creature insensible of the blessing ! Excuse me, 
I can never approve of such a piece of injustice ! 
And I have my reasons." — "Indeed, sir," cried 
Deborah, "if you have your reasons, that's ano- 
ther affair ; but I should be glad to know those 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



83 



reasons." — " Excuse me, madam," returned he, 
" they lie too deep for discovery (laying his hand 
upon his bosom); they remain buried, riveted here." 
After he was gone, upon a general consultation, 
we could not tell what to make of these fine senti- 
ments. Olivia considered them as instances of the 
most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so san- 
guine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had 
more of love than matrimony in them : yet, what- 
ever they might portend, it was resolved to prose- 
cute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from 
my daughter's first appearance in the country, had 
paid her his addresses. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the power of long and 
pleasing Temptation. 

As I only studied my child's real happiness, the 
assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was 
in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It 
required but very little encouragement to revive Ms 
former passion ; so that in an evening or tv/o he and 
Mr. Thornliill met at our house, and surveyed each 
other for some time with looks of anger; but Wil- 
liams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded 
his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the co- 
quette to perfection, if that might be called acting 
which was her real character, pretending to lavish 
all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thorn- 
hill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and 
with a pensive air took leave, though I own it puz- 
zled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared 
to be, when he had it in his power so easily to re- 
move the cause, by declaring an honourable pas- 
sion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to en- 
dure, it could easil};^ be perceived that Olivia's an- 
guish was still greater. After any of these inter- 
views between her lovers, of which there were se- 
veral, she usually retired to solitude, and there in- 
dulged her grief. It was in such a situation I 
found her one evening, after she had been for some 
time supporting a fictitious gaiety. "You now 
see, my child," said I, "that your confidence in 
Mr. Thornhill's passion was all a dream: he per- 
mits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, 
though he knows it lies in his power to secure you 
to liimself by a candid declaration." — "Yes, papa," 
returned she, "but he has his reasons for this de- 
lay : I know he has. The sincerity of Ms looks 
and words convinces me of his real esteem. A 
short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of 
his sentiments, and convince you that ray opinion 
of him has been more just than yours." — " Olivia, 
my d rling," returned I, "every scheme that has 
been Mtherto pursued to compel him to a declara- 
tion, has been proposed and planned by yourself 



nor can you in the least say that I have constrained 
you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I 
will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest 
rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. 
Whatever time you require to bring your fancied 
admirer to an explanation, shall be granted ; but at 
the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, 
I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams 
shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character 
which I have hitherto supported in life demands 
this from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall 
never influence my integrity as a man. Name 
then your day; let it be as distant as you think 
proper; and in the meantime, take care to let Mr. 
Thornliill know the exact time on which I design 
delivering you up to another. If he really loves 
you, his own good sense will readOy suggest that 
there is but one method alone to prevent his losing 
you for ever." — This proposal, which she could not 
avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily 
agreed to. She again renewed her most positive 
promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in case of tlie 
other's insensibility; and at the next opportunity, 
in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was 
fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble 
Mr. Thornhill's anxiety: but what Olivia really 
felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle 
between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite 
forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was 
sought and spent in tears. One week passed away; 
but Mr. Thornliill made no efforts to restrain her 
nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assi- 
duous; but not more open. On the third he dis- 
continued his visits entirely, and instead of my 
daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, 
she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which 
I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, 
I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my 
child was going to be secured in a continuance of 
competence and peace, and frequently applauded 
her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostenta- 
tion. 

It was within about four days of her intended 
nuptials, that my little family at night were gather- 
ed round a charming tire, telling stories of the past, 
and laying schemes for the future ; busied in form- 
ing a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever 
folly came uppermost. " Well, Moses," cried I, 
"we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the 
family; what is your opinion of matters and things 
in general!" — "My opinion, father, is, that all 
things go on very well; and 1 was just now think- 
ing, that when sister Livy is married to Farmer 
Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cider 
press and brewing tubs for nothing." — " That we 
shall, Moses," cried I, "and he will sing us Death 
and the Lady, to raise our spirits, into the bargain." 
" He has taiifrht that song to our Di'.-k," cried Mo- 



84 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ses, "and I think he goes through it very prettily." 
"Does he so?" cried I, "then let us have it: 
Where's little Dick? let him up with it boldly." — 
"My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, "is 
just gone out with sister Livy ; but Mr. Williams 
has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for 
yon, papa. Which song do you choose, The dying 
Swan, or the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog?" 
" The elegy, child, by all means," said I; "I never 
heard that yet; and Deborah, my life, grief you 
know is dry, let us have a bottle of the best goose- 
berry-wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept 
so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, without 
an enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome 
me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrirni 
in with the boy a little." 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song, 
And if you find it wondrous short. 

It can not hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

Tlmt still agodly race he ran, 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes; 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain some private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man, 

Around from all the neighbouring streets, 
The wondering neighbours ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every christian eye; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, , 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light. 
That show'd the rogues they lied, — 

The man recover' d of the bite, 
The dog it was that died. 

" A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, aiid an 
elegy that may truly be called tragical. Come, my 
children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day 
be a bishop!" 

" With all mv heart," cried my wife; " and if he 



but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt 
of him. The most of his family, by the mother's 
side, could sing a good song: it was a common say- 
ing in our country, that the family of the Blenldn- 
sops could never look straight before them, nor the 
Hugginsons blow out a candle; that there were 
none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of 
Marjormns but could tell a story." — " However 
that be," cried I, " the most vulgar ballad of them 
all generally pleases me better than the fine modern 
odes, and tilings that petrify us in a single stanza; 
productions that we at once detest and praise. Put 
the glass to your brother, Moses. The great fault 
of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for 
griefs that give the sensible part of manldnd verj 
little pain. A lady loses her muflT, her fan, or her 
lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify 
the disaster." 

"That may be the mode," cried Moses, "in 
sublimer compositions; but the Ranelagh songs that 
come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast 
in the same mould ; Colin meets Do%, and they 
hold a dialogue together; he gives her a fairing to 
put in her hair, and she presents him with a nose- 
gay ; and then they go together to church, where 
they give good advice to young nymphs and swains 
to get married as fast as they can." 

" And very good advice too," cried I ; " and I am 
told there is not a place in the world where advice 
can be given with so much propriety as there ; for 
as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with 
a wife : and surely that must be an excellent market, 
my boy, where we are told what we want, and sup- 
phed with it when wanting." 

" Yes, sir," returned Moses, " and I know but 
of two such markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh 
in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Span- 
ish market is open once a-year; but our English 
wives are saleable every night." 

"You are right, my boy," cried his mother; 
" Old England is the only place in the world for 
husbands to get wives." — " And for wives to man- 
age their husbands," interrupted I. "It is a pro- 
verb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the 
sea, all the ladies of the continent would come over 
to take pattern from ours; for there are no such 
wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one 
bottle more, Deborah, my life; and Moses, give us 
a good song. What thanks do we not owe to 
Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and 
competence. I think myself happier now than the 
greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such 
fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, 
Deborah, we are now growing old; but the evening 
of our life is hkely to be happy. We are descend- 
ed from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall 
leave a good and virtuous race of children behind 
us. While we live, they will be our support and our 
pleasure here; and when we die, they will transmit 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



85 



our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my 
son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But 
where is my dariing Olivia? That httle cherub's 
voice is always sweetest in the concert." — Just as 
I spoke, Dick came running in, " O papa, papa, 
she is gone from us, she is gone from us ; my sister 
Livy is gone from us for ever." — "Gone, child!" 
" Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post- 
chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he 
would die for her : and she cried very much, and 
was for coming back ; but he persuaded her again, 
and she went into the chaise, and said, O what 
will my poor papa do when he knows lam undone !" 
"Now then," cried I, "my children, go and be 
miserable ; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. 
And O may Heaven's everlasting fury light upon 
him and his ! — Thus to rob me of my child ! — And 
sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent that 
I was leading up to TIeaven. Such sincerity as 
my child was possessed ofl — But all oar earthly 
happiness is now over ! Go, my chiklren, go and 
be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is broken 
within me!" — "Father," cried my son, "is this 
your fortitude T'—" Fortitude, child! Yes, he 
shall see I have fortitude ! Bring me my pistols. 
I'll pursue the traitor: while he is on earth I'll 
pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting 
him yet. The villain! The perfidious villain!" 
I had by this time reached dovra my pistols, when 
my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong 
as mine, caught me in her arms. " My dearest, 
dearest husband," cried she, " the Bible is the only 
weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open 
that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, 
for she has vilely deceived us." — " Indeed, sir," re- 
sumed my son, after a pause, " your rage is too vio- 
lent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's 
comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill suited 
you and your reverend character, thus to curse 
your greatest enemy : you should not have cursed 
him, villain as he is." — " I did not curse him, child, 
did 17" — "Indeed, sir, you did; you cursed him 
twice." — " Then may Heaven forgive me and him 
if I did ! And now, my son, I see it was more 
than human benevolence that first taught us to 
bless our enemies ! Blessed be his holy name for 
all the good he hath given, aird for all that he hath 
taken awa)^ But it is not — it is not a small dis- 
tress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that 
have not wept for so many years. My child ! — 
To undo my darling ! — May confusion seize — 
Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say ! — You 
may remember, my love, how good she was, and 
how charming ; till this vile moment, all her care 
was to make us happy. Had she but (hed ! — But 
she is gone, the honour of our family contaminated, 
and I must look out for happiness in other worlds 
than here. But, my child, you saw them go off: 
perhaps he forced her away 1 If he forced her, 



she may yet be innocent." — "Ah no, sir," cried 
the child ; "he only kissed her, and called her his 
angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon 
his arm, and they drove off very fast." — " She's an 
ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who could 
scarcely speak for weeping, " to use us thus. She 
never had the least constraint put upon her affec- 
tions. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her 
parents without any provocation — thus to bring 
your gray hairs to the grave, and I must shortly 
follow." 

In this manner that night, the first of our real 
misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of com- 
plaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I 
determined, however, to find out our betrayer, 
wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The 
next morning we missed our wretched child at 
breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerful- 
ness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to 
ease her heart by reproaches. " Never," cried she, 
"shall that vilest stain of our family again darken 
these harmless doors. I will never call her daugh- 
ter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile 
seducer : she niay bring us to shame, but she shall 
never more deceive us." 

"Wife," said I, "do not talk thus hardly: my 
detestation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but 
ever shall this house and this heart be open to a 
poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she 
returns from her transgression, the more welcome 
shall she be to me. For the first time the very 
best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty spread 
out its charm. The first faidt is the child of sim- 
phcity, but every other the ofiTspring of guilt. Yes, 
the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart 
and this house, though stained with ten thousand 
vices. ■ I will again hearken to the music of her 
voice, again will I hang fondly on her bosom, if I 
find but repentance there. My son, bring hither 
my Bible and my staff": I will pursue her, wherever 
she is ; and though I can not save her from shame, 
I may prevent the continuance of iniquity." 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Child to Virtue. 

Though the child could not describe the gentle- 
man's person who handed his sister into the post- 
chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our 
young landlord, whose character for such intrigues 
was but too well known. I therefore directed my 
steps towards Thornhill-castle, resolving to upbraid 
him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter : 
but before I had reached his seat, I was met by one 
of my parishioners, who said he saw^ a young lady, 
resembling my daughter, in a post-chaise with a 
gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only 



86 



GOLDSMITH'S WORJKS. 



guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very 
fast. This information, however, did by no means 
satisfy me. I therefore went to the young 'Squire's, 
and though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing 
him immediately. He soon appeared with the 
most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly ama- 
zed at my daughter's elopement, protesting upon 
his honour that he was quite a stranger to it. I 
now therefore condemned my former suspicions, 
and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who I 
recollected had of late several private conferences 
with her : but the appearance of another witness 
left me no room to doubt his villany, who averred, 
that he and my daughter were actually gone towards 
the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was 
a great deal of company. Being driven to that 
state of mind in which we are more ready to act 
precipitately than to reason right, I never debated 
with myself, whether these accounts might not have 
been given by persons purposely placed in my way 
to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter 
and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along 
with earnestness, and inquired of several by the 
way; but received no accounts, till, entering the 
town, I was met by a person on horseback, Vv^hom 
I remembered to have seen at the 'Squire's, and he 
assured me, that if I followed them to the races, 
which were but thirty miles farther, I might depend 
upon overtaking them ; for he had seen them dance 
there the night before, and the whole assembly 
seemed charmed with my daughter's performance. 
Early the next day, I walked forward to the races, 
and about four in the afternoon I came upon the 
course. The company made a very brilHant ap- 
pearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, 
that of pleasure : how different from mine, that of 
reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought I per- 
ceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me ; but, 
as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approach- 
ing him, he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him 
no more. I now reflected that it would be to no 
purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved 
to return home to an innocent family, who wanted 
my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, 
and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a 
fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I 
came off the course. This was another unexpected 
stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant 
from home : however, I retired to a little ale-house 
by the road-side, and in this place, the usual retreat 
of indigence and frugality; 1 laid me down patiently 
to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here 
for nearly three weeks ; but at last my constitution 
prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to 
defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is 
possible the anxiety from this last circumstance 
alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not 
been supplied by a traveller, who stopped to take a 
cursory refreshment. This pfrson was no other 



than the philanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's 
Church-yard, who has written so many little books 
for children : he called himself their friend ; but he 
was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner 
alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he 
was ever on business of the utmost importance, and 
was at that time actually compiling materials for 
the liistory of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immedi- 
ately recollected this good-natured man's red pirn- 
pled face ; for he had published for me against the 
Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I bor- 
rowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving 
the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved 
to return home by easy journeys of ten mites a-day. 
My health and usual tranquillity were almost re- 
stored, and I now condemned that pride which had 
made me refractory to the hand of correction, 
Man little knows what calamities are beyond his 
patience to bear, till he tries them ; as in ascending 
the heights of ambition, which look bright from 
below, every step we rise shows us some new and 
gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; so in 
our descent from the summits of pleasure, though 
the vale of misery below may appear at first dark 
and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to its 
own amusement, finds, as we descend, something: 
to flatter and to please. Still, as we approach, the 
darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental 
ejQ becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. 

I now proceeded forward, and had wallted about 
two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a 
distance hive a wagon, which I v/as resolved to 
overtalce ; but when I came up with it, found it to> 
be a strolling company's cart, that was carrying their 
scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next vil- 
lage, where they were to exhibit. The cart was 
attended only by the person who drove it, and one 
of the company, as the rest of the players were to 
follow the ensuing day. " Good company u pon the 
road," says the proverb, "is the shortest cut." I 
therefore entered into conversation with the poor 
player ; and as I once had some theatrical powers 
myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual 
freedom : but as I was pretty much unacquainted 
with the present state of the stage, I demanded who 
were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who 
the Drydens and Otways of the day 7 — " I fancy, 
sir," cried the player, "few of our modern dra- 
matists would think themselves much honoured by 
being compared to the writers you mention. Dry- 
den's and Rowe's manner, sir, are quite out of 
fashion ; our taste has gone back a whole century ; 
Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shaks- 
peare, are the only things that go down." — " How," 
cried I, " is it possible the present age can be pleased 
with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour, 
those overcharged characters, which abound in the 
works you mention 7" — "Sir," returned my com- 
panion, " the pubhc think nothing about dialect, or 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



87 



humour, or character, for that is none of their bu- 
siness ; they only go to be amused, and find them- 
selves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, 
under the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspeare's 
name," — " So then, I suppose," cried I, "that our 
modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shaks- 
peare than of nature."—" To say the truth," re- 
turned my companion, " I don't know that they 
imitate any thing at all ; nor indeed does the pub- 
lic require it of them : it is not the composition of 
the piec^, but the number of starts and attitudes 
that may be introduced into it, that elicits applause. 
I have known a piece, with not one jest in the 
whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved 
hy the poet's throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, 
sir, the works of Congreve and Farquhar have too 
much wit in them for the present taste ; our modern 
dialect is much more natural." 

By this time the equipage of the strolling com- 
pany was arrived at the village, which, it seems, 
had been apprized of our approach, and was come 
out to gaze at us : for my companion observed, that 
strollers always have more spectators without doors 
than within. I did not consider the impropriety of 
my being in such company, till I saw a mob gather 
about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as pos- 
sible, in the first ale-house that offered, and being 
shown into the common room, was accosted by a 
very well dressed gentleman, who demanded whe- 
ther I was the real chaplain of the company, or 
whether it was only to be my masquerade charac- 
ter in the play. Upon my informing him of the 
truth, and that I did not belong in any sort to the 
company, he was condescending enough to desire 
me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, 
over which he discussed modern politics with great 
earnestness and interest. I set him down in my 
own mind for nothing less than a parliament-man 
at least ; but was almost confirmed in my conjec- 
tures, when, upon asking what there was in the 
house for supper, he insisted that the player and I 
should sup with him at his house ; with which re- 
quest, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on 
to comply. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The description of a Person discontented with the present 
Government and apprehensive of the loss of our Liberties. 

The house where we were to be entertained 
lying at a small distance from the village, our in- 
viter observed, that as the coach was not ready, he 
would conduct us on foot; and we soon arrived at 
one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen 
in that part of the country. The apartment into 
which we were shown was perfectly elegant and 
modern : he went to give orders for supper, while 
the pla3'er with a v.'ink, observed that we were 



perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon return- 
ed; an elegant supper was brought in, two or 
three ladies in easy dishabille were introduced, 
and the conversation began with some sprightli- 
ness. Politics, however, was the subject on which 
our entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted 
that liberty was at once his boast and his terror. 
After the cloth was removed, he asked nie if I had 
seen the last Monitor? to which replying in the 
negative, " What, nor the Auditor, I suppose?" 
cried he. " Neither, sir," returned I. " That's 
strange, very strange," replied my entertainer. 
" Now I read all the politics that come out. The 
Daily, the Pi^blic, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the 
London Evening, the Wliitehall Evening, the sev- 
enteen Magazines, and the two Reviews; and 
though they hate each other, I love them all. Lib- 
erty, sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my 
coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians." 
— " Then it is to be hoped," cried I, " you reve- 
rence the king."—" Yes," returned my entertainer, 
" when he does what we would have him; but if 
he goes on as he has done of late, I'll never trouble 
myself more with his matters. I say nothing. I 
think, only, I could have directed some tilings better. 
I don't think there has been a sufficient number of 
advisers : he should advise with every person wil- 
ling to give him advice, and then we should have 
things done in another guess manner." 

" I wish," cried I, "that such intruding advisers 
were fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty 
of honest men to assist the weaker side of our con- 
stitution, that sacred power which has for some 
years been every day declining, and losing its due 
share of influence in the state. But these igno- 
rants still continue the same cry of liberty ; and if 
they have any weight, basely throw it into the sub- 
siding scale." 

" How," cried one of the ladies, " do 1 live to see 
one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, 
and a defender of tyrants? Liberty, that sacred 
gift of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Briton*?"' 

" Can it be possible," cried our entertainer^ "that 
there should be any found at present advocates for 
slavery? Any who are for meanly giving- up the 
privilege of Britons? Can any, sir, be so abject?" 

" No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that at- 
tribute of God! Glorious liberty! that theme of 
modern declamation. I would' have all men kings. 
I would be a king myself. We have all naturally 
an equal right to the throne : we are alt originally 
equal. This is my opinion, and was once the 
opinion of a set of honest men who were called 
Levellers. They tried to erect themselves into 
a community where all would be equally free. But, 
alas! it would never answer; for there were some 
among them stronger, and some more cunning than 
others, and these became masters of the rest ; for 
as sure as vour groom ritles your horses, because h© 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the 
animal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit 
upon his shoulders in turn. Since then it is en- 
tailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born 
to command, and others to obey, the question is, as 
there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have 
them in the same house with us, or in the same 
village, or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, 
sir, for my own part as I naturally hate the face 
of a tyrant, the farther ofi' he is removed from me, 
the better pleased am I. The generality of man- 
kind also are of my way of thinking, and have 
unanimously created one king, whose election at 
once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts 
tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest 
number of people. Now the great who were t}'- 
rants themselves before the election of one tyrant, 
are naturally averse to a power raised over them, 
and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the 
subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, 
therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as 
possible; because whatever they take from that, is 
naturally restored to themselves ; and all they have 
to do in the state, is to undermine the single ty- 
rant, by which they resume their primeval authori- 
ty. Now the state may be so circumstanced, or 
its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence 
so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this 
business of undermining monarchy. For in the 
first place, if the circumstances of our state be such 
as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make 
the opulent still more rich, this will increase their 
ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however, 
must necessarily be the consequence, when as at 
present, more riches flow in from external com- 
merce, than arise from internal industrj^; for ex 
ternal commerce can only be managed to ad- 
vantage by the rich, and they have also at the 
same time all the emoluments arising from internal 
industry; so that the rich, with us, have two 
sources of wealth, whereas the poor have hut one. 
For this reason, wealth, in all commercial states, 
is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto 
in time become aristocratical. Again, the very 
laws also of this country may contribute to the ac- 
cumulation of wealth; as when, by their means, 
the natural ties that bind the rich and poor together 
are broken, and it is ordained, that the rich shall 
only marry v.'ith the rich; or when the learned are 
held unqualified to serve their country as counsel- 
lors, merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth 
is thus made the object of a wise man's ambition; 
by these means, I say, and such means as these, 
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of ac- 
cumulated wealth, when furnished with the neces- 
saries and pleasures of life, has no other method to 
employ the superfluity of his fortune but in pur- 
chasing power. That is, differently speaJcing, in 
making dependants, by purchasing the liberty of 



the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to 
bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for 
bread. Thus each very opulent man generally 
gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the 
people ; and the polity abounding in accumulated 
wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian system, 
each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, how- 
ever, who are willing to move in a great man's 
vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rabble 
of mankind, whose souls and whose education are 
adapted to servitude, and who knownotliing of lib- 
erty except the name. But there must still be a 
large number of the people without the sphere of 
the opulent man's influence, namely, that order 
of men which subsists between the very rich and 
the very rabble; those men who are possessed of too 
large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man 
in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyran- 
ny themselves. In this middle order of mankind 
are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and 
virtues of society. This order alone is known to 
be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called 
the people. Now it may happen that this middle 
order of mankind may lose all its influence in a 
state, and its voice be in a manner drowned' in 
that of the rabble : for if the fortune sufficient for 
qualifying a person at present to give his voice in 
state affairs be ten times less than was judged suf- 
ficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident 
that greater numbers of the rabble will be thus in- 
troduced into the political system, and they ever 
moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where 
greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, 
all that the middle order has left, is to preserve the 
prerogative and privileges of the one principal go- 
vernor with the most sacred circumspection. Fci 
he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the 
great from falling with tenfold weight on the mid- 
dle order placed beneath them. The middle order 
may be compared to a town, of which the opulent 
are forming the siege, and of which the governor 
from without is hastening the rehef. While the 
besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is 
but natural to ofler the townsmen the most specious 
terms; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse 
them with privileges ; but if they once defeat the 
governor from behind, the walls of the town will 
be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they 
may then expect, may be seen by turning our eyes 
to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern 
the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, 
and would die for monarchy, sacred monarchy ; for 
if there be any thing sacred amongst men, it must be 
the anointed Sovereign of his people; and every 
diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an 
infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. 
The sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons, 
have already done much ; it is to be hoped that the 
true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



more. I have known many of those pretended 
champions for Uberty in my time, yet do I not re- 
member one that was not in his heart and in his 
family a tyrant." 

My warmth I found had lengthened this ha- 
rangue beyond the rules of goood breeding : but 
the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove 
to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. 
"What," cried he, "then I have been all this 
while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's clothes! but 
by all the coal-mines of Cornwall, out he shall 
pack, if my name be Wilkinson." I now found I 
had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth 
with which I had spoken. "Pardon!" returned 
he in a fury : " I think such principles demand ten 
thousand pardons. Whaf? give up liberty, pro- 
perty, and, the Gazetteer says, lie down to be sad- 
dled with wooden shoes! sir, I insist upon your 
marcliing out of this house immediately, to prevent 
worse consequences ; sir, I insist upon it." I was go- 
ing to repeat my remonstrances; butjustthen we 
heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two 
ladies cried out, "Assure as death there is our 
master and mistress come home." It seems my 
entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, 
in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, 
and be for a while the gentleman himself : and, to 
say the truth, he talked politics as well as most 
country gentlemen do. But nothing could now ex- 
ceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and 
his lady enter ; nor was their surprise at finding 
such company and good cheer less than ours. 
"Gentlemen," cried the real master of the house 
to me and my companion," my wife and I are 
your most humble servants; but I protest this 
is so unexpected a favour, that we almost sink 
under the obligation." However unexpected our 
company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was 
still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with 
the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when 
whom should I next see enter the room but my 
dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly de- 
Eigned to be married to my son George, but whose 
match was broken off as already related. As soon 
as she saw me, she flew to my arms with the ut- 
most joy. — "My dear sir," cried she, " to what 
happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a 
visit? I am sm-e my uncle and aunt will be in rap- 
tures when they find they have the good Dr. Prim- 
rose for their guest." Upon hearing my name, 
the old gentleman and lady very pohtely stepped 
up, and welcomed me with the most cordial hospi- 
tality. Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being 
informed of the nature of my present visit ; but the 
unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed dis- 
posed to turn away, was at my intercession for- 
given. 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be- 
longed, now insisted upon having the pleasure of 



my stay for some days : and as their niece, my 
charming pupil, whose mind in some measure had 
been formed under my own instructions, joined in 
their entreaties, I complied. That night I was 
shown to a magnificent chamber, and the next 
morning early Miss Wilmot desired to walk with 
me in the garden, which was decorated in the mo- 
dern manner. After some time spent in pointing 
out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with 
seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from 
my son Georgel "Alas, madam," cried I, "he has 
now been nearly three years absent, without ever 
writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know 
not ; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness 
more. No, my dear madam, we shall never more 
see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our 
fire -side at Wakefield. My little family are now 
dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not 
only want, but infamy upon us." The good-na- 
tured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as I 
saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I fore- 
bore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It 
was, however, some consolation to me, to find that 
time had made no alteration in her affections, and 
that she had rejected several offers that had been 
made her since our leaving her part of the country. 
She led me round all the extensive improvements 
of the place, pointing to the several walks and ar- 
bours, and at the same time catching from every 
object a hint for some new question relative to my 
son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till 
the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we fi^und 
the manager of the strolling company that I men- 
tioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets 
for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that 
evening, the part of Horatio by a young gentle- 
man who had never appeared on any stage. He 
seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new 
performer, and averred that he never saw any who 
bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, 
was not learned in a day; "but this gentleman," 
continued he, " seems born to tread the stage. His 
voice, his figure, and attitudes, are all admirable. We 
caught him up accidentally in our journey down." 
This account, in some measure, excited our curiosi- 
ty, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed 
upon to accompany them to the play-house, which 
was no other than a barn. As the company with 
which I went was incontestably the chief of the 
place, we were received with the greatest respect, 
and placed in the front seat of the theatre ; where 
we sat for some time with no small impatience to 
see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- 
former advanced at last ; and let parents think of 
my sensations by their own, when I found it was 
my unfortunate son. He was going to begin, 
when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he per- 
ceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once 
speechless and immovable. The actors behind the 



90 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



scene, who ascribed this cause to his natural timidi- 
ty, attempted to encourage him; but instead of go- 
ing on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired 
off the stage. I don' t know what were my feelings 
on this occasion, for they succeeded with too much 
rapidity for description; but I was soon awaked 
from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, 
who, pale, and with a trembUng voice, desired me 
to conduct her back to her uncle's. When got home, 
Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extra- 
ordinary behaviour, being informed that the new 
performer was my son, sent his coach and an in- 
vitation for him: and as he persisted in his refusal 
to appear again upon the stage, the players put an- 
other in his place, and we soon had him with us. 
Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and 
I received him with my usual transport ; for I could 
never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot' s 
reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet 
I could perceive she acted a studied part. The 
tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated : she 
said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and 
then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. 
At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, 
as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible 
beauty, and often would ask questions without giv- 
ing any manner of attention to the answers. 



CHAPTER XX. 

The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, 
but losing Content. 

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely of- 
fered to send a couple of her footmen for my son's 
baggage, which he at first seemed to decline; but 
upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to 
inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all the 
moveable things upon this earth that he could boast 
of. " Why, ay, my son," cried I, " you left me but 
poor, and poor I find you are come back; and yet I 
malie no doubt you have seen a great deal of the 
world." — " Yes, sir," replied my son, " but travel- 
ling after fortune is not the v^ray to secure her; and, 
indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit." — 
" I fancy, sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, " that the ac- 
count of your adventures would be amusing : the 
first part of them I have often heard from my niece ; 
but could the company prevail for the rest, it would 
bean additional obligation." — "Madam," replied 
my son, " I promise you the pleasure you have in 
hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in 
repeating them; and yet in the whole narrative I 
can scarcely promise you one adventure, as my ac- 
count is rather of what I saw than what I did. 
The first misfortune of my life, which you all 
know, was great; but though it distressed, it could 
not sink me. No person ever had a better knack 
at hoping than I. The less kind I found fortune 



at one time, the more I expected from her another, 
and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every 
new revolution might Uft, but could not depress me. 
I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine 
morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, but 
cheerful as the birds that caroled by the road, and 
comforted myself with reflecting, that London was 
the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of 
meeting distinctioii and reward. 

' Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was 
to deliver your letter of recommendation to our 
cousin, who was himself in little better circum- 
stances than I. My first scheme, you know, sir, 
was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his ad- 
vice on the affair. Our cotisin received the propo- 
sal with a true Sardonic grin. Ay, cried he, this 
is indeed a very pretty career that has been chalked 
out for you. I have been an usher at a boarding- 
school myself; and may I die by an anodyne neck- 
lace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in New- 
gate. I was up early and late : I was browbeat by 
the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, 
worried by the boys within, and never permitted to 
stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure 
you are fit for a school? Let me examine you a 
little. Have you been bred apprentice to the busi- 
ness! No. Then you won't do for a school. Can 
you dress the boys' hair? No. Then you won't do 
for a school. Have you had the sniall-poxl No. 
Then you won't do for a school. Can you lio 
three in a bed? No. Then you will never do for a 
school. Have you got a good stomach? Yes, Then 
you will by no means do for a school. No, sir, if 
you are for a genteel easy profession, bind yourself 
seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's 
wheel; but avoid a school by any means. Yet 
come, contirmed he, 1 see you are a lad of spirit and 
some learning, what do you think of commencing 
author, like me? You have read in books, no 
doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade. At 
present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about 
town that live by it in opulence; all honest jog-trot 
men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write his- 
tory and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who, 
had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives 
have only mended shoes, but never made them. 

"Finding that there was no great degree of gen- 
tility affixed to the character of an usher, I re- 
solved to accept his proposal; and having the high- 
est respect for literature, hailed the antiqua jnater 
of Grub-street with reverence. 1 thought it my 
glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway 
trod before me. I considered the goddess of this 
region as the parent of excellence ; and however an 
intercourse with the world might give us good 
sense, the poverty she entailed I supposed to be the 
nurse of genius ! Big with these reflections, I sal 
down, and finding that the best things remained to 
be said on the wronw side, I resolved to write a book 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



91 



that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up 
three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were 
false, indeed, but they Avere new. The jewels of 
truth have been so often imported by others, that 
nothing was left for me to import but some splendid 
things that at a distance looked every bit as well. 
Witness, you powers, what fancied importance sat 
perched upon mj^ quill wliile I was writing! The 
whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise 
to oppose my systems ; but then I was prepared to 
oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcu- 
pine, I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against 
every opposer." 

" Well said, my boy," cried I, " and what sub- 
ject did you treat upon? I hope you did not pass 
over the importance of monogamy. But I inter- 
rupt; go on: you published your paradoxes; well, 
and what did the learned world say to your para- 
doxes?" 

" Sir," replied my son, " the learned world said 
nothing to my paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir. 
Every man of them was employed in praising his 
friends and himself, or condemnmg his enemies: 
and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the 
cruelest mortification, neglect. 

" As I was meditating one tlay in a cofiee-house 
on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happening 
to enter the room, placed himself in the box before 
me, and after some preliminary discourse, finding 
me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, 
begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was 
going to give to the world of Pvopertius with notes. 
This demand necessarily produced a reply that I 
had no money; and that concession led him to in- 
quire into the nature of my expectations. Finding 
that my expectations were just as great as my 
p«urse, I see, cried he, you are unacquainted with 
the town ; I'll teach you a part of it. Look at these 
proposals, — upon these very proposals I have sub- 
sisted very comfortably for twelve years. The mo- 
ment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Croo- 
lian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her 
country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first be- 
siege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in 
my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe 
readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a 
dedication fee. If they let me have tliat, I smite 
them once more for engraving their coat of arms at 
the top. Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and 
laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too 
well known : I should be glad to borrow your face 
a bit: a nobleman of distinction has just returned 
from Italy; my face is familiar to his porter; but if 
you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you suc- 
ceed, and we divide the spoil." 

" Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the em 
ployment of poets now! Do men of their exalted 
talents thus stoop to beggai-y! Can they so far dis 



grace their calling as to make a vile traffic of praise 
for breadl" 

" O no, sir," returned he, "a true poet can never 
be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there is 
pride. The creatures I now describe are only beg- 
gars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every 
hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to con^ 
tempt ; and none but those who are unworthy pro- 
tection, condescend to solicit it. 

" Having a mind too proud to stoop to such in- 
dignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a 
second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take 
a middle course, and write for bread. But I was 
unqualified for a profession where mere industry 
alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress 
my lurking passion for applause; but usually con- 
sumed that tiine in efforts after excellence which 
takes up but little room, when it should have been 
more advantageously employed in the diffusive pro- 
ductions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece 
v?ould therefore come forth in the midst of periodi- 
cal publications, unnoticed and unknown. The 
pubUc were more importantly employed than to 
observe the easy simplicity of ray style, or the har- 
mony of my peiiods. Sheet after sheet was thrown 
off' to oblivion. My essays were buried among the 
essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the 
bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes,' 
Philelutheros and Philanthropes all wrote better^ 
because they wrote faster than I, 

" Now, therefore, I began to associate with none 
but disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, 
deplored, and despised each other. The satisfac- 
tion we found in every celebrated writer's attempts,, 
was inversely as their merits. I found that no ge- 
nius in another could please me. My unfortunate' 
paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of com- 
fort. I could neither read nor write with satisfac- 
tion; for excellence in another was my aversion^ 
and waiting was my trade. 

" In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I- 
was one day sitting an a bench in St. James's park,,, 
a young gentleman of distinction, who had been; 
my intimate acquaintance at the university, ap- 
proached me. We saluted each other with some 
hesitation; he almost ashamed of being known to 
one who made so shabby an appearance, and E 
afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions soon van- 
ished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very 
good-natured fellow."' 

" What did you say, Georgcl" interrupted I. — 
" Thornhill, was not that his name? It can cer- 
tainly be no other than my landlord." — " Bless me," 
cried Mrs. Arnold, "is Mr. Thornhill so near a 
neighbour of yours? He has long been a friend in 
our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly."' 

" My friend's first care," continued my son^ 
" was to alter my appearance by a very fine suit of' 



93 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



his own clothes, and then I was admitted to his ta- 
ble, upon the footing of half- friend, half-underling. 
My business was to attend him at auctions, to put 
him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take 
the left hand in his chariot when not filled by ano- 
ther, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase 
■was, when we had a mind for a frolic. Besides 
this, I had twenty other little employments in the 
family. I was to do many small things without 
bidding; to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather 
to all the butler's children; to sing when I was bid; 
to be never out of humour; always to be humble; 
and, if I could, to be very happy. 

" In this honourable post, however, I was not 
without a rival. A captain of marines, who was 
formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my 
patron's affections. His mother had been laundress 
to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired a 
taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman 
made it the study of his life to be acquainted with 
lords, though he was dismissed from several for his 
stupidity, yet he found many of them who were as 
dull as himself, that permitted his assiduities. As 
flattery was his trade, he practised it with the 
easiest address imaginable ; but it came awkward 
and stiff from me : and as every day my patron's 
desire of flattery increased, so every hour being 
better acquainted with his defects, I became more 
unwilling to give it. Thus I was once more fair- 
ly going to give up the field to the captain, when 
my friend found occasion for my assistance. This 
was nothing less than to fight a duel for him, with 
a gentleman whose sister it was pretended he had 
used ill. I readily complied with his request, and 
though I see you are displeased with my conduct, 
yet it was a debt indispensably due to friendship 
I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, dis- 
armed my antagonist, and soon after had the plea- 
sure of finding that the lady was only a woman of 
the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. 
This piece of service was repaid with the warmest 
professions of gratitude : but as my friend was to 
leave tovra in a few days, he knew no other me- 
thod of serving me, but by recommending me to 
his uncle Sir William ThornhiU, and another 
nobleman of great distinction who enjoyed a post 
under the government. When he was gone, my 
first care was to carry his recommendatory let- 
ter to his uncle, a man whose character for every 
virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by 
his servants with the most hospitable smiles; for 
the looks of the domestic ever transmit their mas- 
ter's benevolence. Being shown into a grand apart- 
ment, where Sir William soon came to me, I de- 
livered my message and letter, which he read, and 
after pausing some minutes, " Pray, sir," cried he, 
"inform me what you have done for my lunsman 
to deserve this warm recommendation : but I sup- 
pose, sir, I guess your merits: you have fought for 



him; and so you would expect a reward from me 
for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sin 
cerely wish, that my present refusal may be some 
punishment for your guilt; but still more, that it 
may be some inducement to your repentance." — 
The severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, be- 
cause I knew it was just. My whole expectations 
now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. 
As the doors of the nobiUty are almost ever beset 
with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, 
I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. How- 
ever, after bribing the servants with half my world- 
ly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious 
apartment, my letter being previously sent up for 
his lordship's inspection. During this anxious in- 
terval I had full time to look round me. Every 
thing was grand and of happy contrivance; the 
paintings, the furniture, the gildings petrified me 
with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, 
thought I to myself, how very great must the pos- 
sessor of all these things be, who carries in his 
head the business of the state, and whose house 
displays half the wealth of a kingdom : sure his 
genius must be unfathomable! — During these aw- 
ful reflections, I heard a step come heavily' forward. 
Ah, tliis is the great man himself! No, it was only 
a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon af- 
ter. This must be he! No, it was only the great 
man's valet de chambre. At last his lordship ac- 
tually made his appearance. Are you, cried he, 
the bearer of this here letter? I answered with a 
bow. I learn by this, continued he, as how that — 
But just at that instant a servant delivered him a 
card, and without taking further notice, he went 
out of the room, and left me to digest my own. hap- 
piness at leisure: I saw no more of him, till told 
by a footman that his lordship was going to his 
coach at the door. Down 1 immediately followed 
and joined my voice to that of three or four more, 
who came, like me, to petition for favours. His 
lordship, however, went too fast for u^, and was 
gaining his chariot door with. large strides, when I 
hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply. 
He was by this time got in, and muttered an an- 
swer, half of which only I heard, the other half was 
lost in the rattling of his chariot wheels. I stood 
for some time with my neck stretched out, in the 
posture of one that was listening to catch the glo- 
rious sounds, till looking round me, I found myself 
alone at his lordship's gate. 

" My patience," continued my son, "was now 
quite exhausted : stung with the thousand indigni- 
ties I had met with, I was willing to cast myself 
away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I 
regarded myself as one of those vile things that na- 
ture designed should be thrown by into her lumber- 
room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, how- 
ever, half a guinea left, and of that I thought for- 
tune herself shoifld not deprive me; but in order to 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



93 



be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and 
spend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences 
for the rest. As I was going along with this resolu- 
tion it happened that Mr. Crispe's office seemed in- 
vitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In 
this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his majesty's 
subjects a generous promise of 30Z. a year, for 
which promise all they give in return is their liber- 
ty for life, and permission to let him transport them 
to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a 
a place where I could lose my fears in desperation, 
and entered this cell (for it had the appearance of 
one) with the devotion of a monastic. Here I 
found a number of poor creatures, all in circum- 
stances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. 
Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English impa- 
tience. Each untractable soul at variance with 
fortune, wreaked her injuries on their own hearts: 
but Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all our 
murmurs were hushed. He deigned to regard me 
with an air of peculiar appro oation, and indeed he 
was the first man who for a month past had talked 
to me with smiles. After a few questions he found 
I was fit for every thing in the world. He paus- 
ed a while upon the properest means of providing 
for me, and slapping his forehead as if he had found 
it, assured me, that there was at that time an embas- 
sy talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the 
Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his in- 
terest to get me made secretary. I knew in my 
ovirn heart that the fellow lied, and yet his promise 
gave me pleasure, there was something so magni- 
ficent in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my 
half-guinea, one half of which went to be added to 
his thirty thousand pounds, and with the other 
half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there 
more happy than he. 

" As I was going out with that resolution, I was 
met at the door by the captain of a ship, with whom 
I had formerly some little acquaintance, and he 
agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. 
As I never chose to make a secret of my circum- 
stances, he assured me that I was upon the very 
point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's pro- 
mises; for that he only designed to sell me to the 
plantations. But, continued he, I fancy you might, 
by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a 
genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship 
sails to-morrow for Amsterdam. What if you 
go in her as a passenger? The moment you land, 
all you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen En- 
glish, and I'll warrant you'll get pupils and money 
enough. I suppose you imderstand English, add- 
ed he, by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confi- 
dently assured him of that; but expressed a doubt 
whether the Dutch would be willing to learn En- 
glish. He affirmed with an oath that they were 
fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation 
I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next 



day to teach the Dutch EngUsh in Holland. The 
wind was fair, our voyage short, and after having 
paid ray passage with half my moveables, I found 
myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one 
of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this 
situation I was unwilhng to let any time pass un- 
employed in teaching. I addressed myself there- 
fore to two or three of those I met, whose appear- 
ance seemed most promising; but it was impossible 
to make ourselves mutually understood. It was 
not till this very moment I recollected, that in or- 
der to teach the Dutchmen English, it was neces- 
sary that they should first teach me Dutch. How 
I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to me 
amazing ; but certain it is I overlooked it. 

"This scheme thus blown up, I had some 
thoughts of fairly shipping back to England again; 
but falling into company with an Irish student who 
was returning from Louvain, our subject turning 
upon topics of literature (for by the way it may be 
observed, that I always forgot the meanness of my 
circumstances when I could converse upon such 
subjects,) from him I learned that there were not 
two men in his whole university who understood 
Greek. Tliis amazed me. I instantly resolved to 
travel to Louvain, and there Uve by teaching 
Greek; and in this design I was heartened by my 
brother student, who threw out some liints tliat a 
fortune might be got by it. 

"I set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
day lessened the burden of my moveables, like 
^sop and his basket of bread; for I paid them for- 
my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When 
I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneak- 
ing to the lower professors, but openly tendered my 
talents to the principal hunself. I wentj had ad- 
mittance, and offered Mm my service as a master of 
the Greek language, which I had been told was a 
desideratum in his university. The principal seem- 
ed at first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these 1 
offered to convince him by turning a part of any 
Greek author he should fix upon into Latin, Find- 
ing me peifectly earnest in my proposal, he ad- 
dressed me thus : You see me, young man ; I never 
learned Greek and I don't find that I have ever 
missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and gown 
without Greek; I have ten thousand florins a-year 
without Greek; I eat heartily without Greek; and 
in short, continued he, as I don't know Greek, I 
do not beheve there is any good in it. 

I was now too far from home to think of re- 
turning; so I resolved to go forward. I had some 
knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now 
turned what was my amusement into a present 
means of subsistence. I passed among the harm- 
less peasants of Flanders, and among such of the 
French as were poor enough to be very merry, for 
I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their 
wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house 



94 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry 
tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, 
hut subsistence for the next day. I once or twice 
attempted to play for people of fashion ; but they 
always thought my performance odious, and never 
rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me 
the more extraordinary, as whenever I used in bet- 
ter days to play for company, when playing was my 
amusement, my music never failed to throw them 
into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it 
was now my only means, it Vi^as received with con- 
tempt — a proof how ready the world is to underrate 
those talents by which a man is supported. 

"In this manner 1 proceeded to Paris, with no 
design but just to look about me, and then to go 
forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of 
strangers that have money than of those that have 
wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was 
no great favourite. After walking about the town 
four or five days and seeing the outsides of the best 
houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat of ve- 
nal hospitality, when passing through o)ie of the 
principal streets, whom should I meet but our cou- 
sin, to whom you first recommended me. Tliis 
meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe 
not displeasing to him. He inquired into the na- 
ture of my journey to Paris, and informed me of 
his own business there, which was to collect pic- 
tures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds 
for a gentleman in London, who had just stepped 
into taste and a large fortune. I was the more sur- 
prised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this 
office, as he himself had often assured me he knew 
nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had 
been taught the art of a cognoscente so very sudden- 
ly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The 
whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two 
rules ; the one, always to observe the picture might 
have been better if the painter had taken more 
pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro 
Perugino. But, says he, as I once taught you how 
to be an author in London, I'll now undertake to 
instruct you in the ail of picture-buying at Paris. 

" With this proposal I very readily closed, as it 
was living, and now all my ambition was to live, 
I went therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress 
by his assistance, and after some time accompanied 
him to auctions of pictures, where the English gen 
try were expected to be purchasers. I was not a 
little surprised at his intimacy with people of the 
best fashion, who referred themselves to his judg- 
ment upon every picture or medal, as to an mier- 
ring standard of taste. He made very good use of 
my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked 
his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask 
mine, shrug, look wise, return, and assure the com- 
pany that he could give no opinion upon an affair 
of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes 
an occasion for a more supported assurance. I re- 



member to have seen him, after giving his opinion, 
that the colouring of a picture was not mellow 
enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown 
varnish, that was accidentally lying by, and rub it 
over the piece with great composure before all the 
company, and then ask if he had not imprc-ved the 
tints. 

"When he had finished his commission in Parisj 
he left me strongly recommended to several men of 
distinction, as a person very proper for a travelling 
tutor; and after some time I was employed in that 
capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to 
Paris, inorderto set him forward on his tourthrough 
Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's gover- 
nor, but with a proviso that he should always be 
permitted to govern himself. My pupil in fact 
understood the art of guiding in money concerns 
much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of 
about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by 
an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians, to 
qualify him for the management of it, had bound 
him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was 
his prevailing passion ; all his questions on the road 
were, how money might be saved ; which was the 
least expensive course to travel ; whether any 
thing could be bought that would turn to account 
when disposed of again in London 1 Such curio- 
sities on the way as could be seen for nothing, he 
was ready enough to look at; but if the sight of 
them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he 
had been told they were not worth seeing. He 
never paid a bill that he would not observe how 
amazingly expensive travelling was, and all this 
though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived 
at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port 
and shipping, he inquired the expense of the pas- 
sage by sea home to England. This he was in- 
formed was but a trifle compared to his returning 
by land; he was therefore unable to withstand the 
temptation ; so paying me the small part of my sala- 
ry that was due, he took leave, and embarked with 
only one attendant for London. 

" I now therefore was left once more upon the 
world at large ; but then it was a thing I was used 
to. However, my skill in music could avail me 
notliing in a country where every peasant was a 
better musician than I ; but by this time I had ac- 
quired another talent which answered my purpose 
as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all 
the foreign universities and convents there are, upon 
certain days, philosophical theses maintained against 
every adventitious disputant; for which, if the cham- 
pion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a 
gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one 
night. In this manner, therefore, I fought ray way 
towards England, walked along from city to city, 
examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so 
express it, saw both sides of the picture. My re- 
marks, however, are but few ; I found thatmonarcby 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



95 



was the best government for the poor to live in, and 
commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches 
in general were in every country another name for 
freedom ; and that no man is so fond of liberty him- 
self, as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of 
some individuals in society to his own. 

" Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay 
myrespects first to you, and then to enlist as a volun- 
teer in the first expedition that was going forward 
but on my journey down my resolutions were 
changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, who I 
found belonged to a company of comedians that 
were going to make a summer campaign in the 
country. The company seemed not much to dis- 
approve of me for an associate. They all, however, 
apprized me of the importance of the task at which 
I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed mon- 
ster, and that only such as had very good heads 
could please it ; that acting was not to be learned in 
a day, and that without some traditional shrugs, 
which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, 
these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. 
The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as 
almost every character was in keeping. I was 
driven for some time from one character to another, 
till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the pre- 
sence of the present company has happily hindered 
me from acting." 



CHAPTER XXI. 

Tlie short continuance of Friendship amongst tlie Vicious, 
which is coeval only with mutual Satisfaction. 

My son's account was too long to be delivered 
at once ; the first part of it was begun that night, 
and he was concluding the rest after dinner the 
next day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's 
ec2uipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the 
general satisfaction. The butler, who was now 
become my friend in the family, informed me with 
a whisper, that the 'Squire had already made some 
overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and 
uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon 
Mr. Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my 
son and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed 
that to surprise, and not displeasure. However, 
upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our 
greeting with the most apparent candour ; and aftfer 
a short time his presence served only to increase 
the general good humour. 

After tea he called me aside to inquire after my 
daughter ; but upon my informing him that my in- 
quiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surpri- 
sed; adding, that he had been since frequently at 
my house in order to comfort the rest of my family, 
whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I 
had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot 
or my son j and upon my replying that I had not 



told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence 
and precaution, desiring mc by all means to keep 
it a secret : "For at best," cried he, " it is but di- 
vulging one's own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy 
may not be so guilty as we all imagine." We were 
here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask the 
'Squire in, to stand up at country dances ; so that 
he left me quite pleased with the interest he seem- 
ed to take in my concerns. His addresses, how- 
ever, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mis- 
taken : and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, 
but bore them rather in compliance to the will of 
her aunt than from real inclination. 1 had even 
the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looks 
upon my unfortunate son, which the other could 
neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. 
Thornhill's seeming composure, however, not a 
little surprised me ; we had now continued here a 
week at the pressing instances of Mr. Arnold : but 
each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot show- 
ed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship seemed pro- 
portionably to increase for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assu- 
rances of using his interest to serve the family ; but 
now his generosity was not confined to promises 
alone. The morning I designed for my departure, 
Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real plea- 
sure, to inform me of a piece of service he had done 
for his friend George. This was nothing less than 
his having procured him an ensign's commission 
in one of the regiments that was going to the West 
Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred 
pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get 
an abatement of the other two. " As for this tri- 
fling piece of service," continued the young gentle- 
man, " I desire no other reward but the pleasure 
of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred 
pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it 
yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay 
me at your leisure." This was a favour we want- 
ed words to express our sense of: I readily there- 
fore gave my bond for the money, and testified as 
much gratitude as if 1 never intended to pay. 

George was to depart for town the next day to 
secure his commission, in pursuance of his gener- 
ous patron's directions, who judged it highly expe- 
dient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another 
should step in with more advantageous proposals. 
The next morning therefore our young soldier was 
early prepared for his departure, and seemed the 
only person among us that was not affected by it. 
Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to 
encounter, nor the friends and mistress — for Miss 
Wilmot actually loved him — he was leaving be- 
hind, any way damped his spirits. After he had 
taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him 
all I had, my blessing. " And no^v, my boy," cried 
I, " thou art going to fight for thy country, remem- 
ber how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred 



96 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. 
Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfor- 
tunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk>- 
land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, 
exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the 
most precious tears are those with which Heaven 
bedews the unburied head of a soldier." 

The next morning I took leave of the good fa- 
mily, that had been kind enough to entertain me so 
long, not without several expressions of gratitude 
to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them 
in the enjoyment of all that happiness which afflu- 
ence and good-breeding procure, and returned to- 
wards home, despairing of ever finding my daugh- 
ter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare 
and to forgive her. I was now come within about 
twenty miles of home, having hired a horse to carry 
me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself 
with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest 
upon earth. But the night coming on, I put up 
at a little public-house by the road side, and asked 
for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. We 
sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room 
in the house, and chatted on politics and the news 
of the country. We happened, among other topics, 
to talk of young 'Squire Thornhill, who, the host 
assured me, was hated as much as his uncle Sir 
William, who sometimes came down to the coun- 
try, was loved. He went on to observe, that he 
made it his whole study to betray the daughters of 
such as received him to their houses, and after a 
fortnight or three weeks' possession, turned them 
out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As 
we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, 
who had been out to get change, returned, and per- 
ceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure 
in which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in 
an- angry tone, what he did there? to which he 
only rephed in an ironi(;al way, by drinking her 
health. "Mr. Symmonds," cried she, "you use 
me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here three 
parts of the business is left for me to do, and the 
fourtli left unfinished ; while you do nothing but 
soak with the guests all day long : whereas if a 
spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never 
touch a drop." I now found what she would be 
at, and immediately poured her out a glass, which 
she received with a courtesy, and drinking towards 
my good health, "Sir," resumed she, "it is not 
so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but 
one can not help it when the house is going out of 
the windows. If the customers or guests are to be 
dunned, all the burden lies upon my back ; he'd as 
lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. 
There, now, above stairs, we have a young woman 
who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I 
don't beheve she has got any money by her over 
civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, 
and I wish she were put in mind of it." — " What 



signifies minding her," cried the host, "if she be 
slow she is sure."— "T don't know that," replied 
the wife; " but 1 knovv that I am sure she has been 
here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the 
cross of her money." — " I suppose, my dear," cried 
he, " we shall have it all in a lump." — " In a lump!" 
cried the other, "I hope we may get it any way; 
and that I am resolved we will tliis very night, or 
out she tramps, bag and baggage." — "Consider, 
my dear," cried the husband, " she is a gentlewo- 
man, and deserves more respect." — "As for the 
matter of that," returned the hostess, " gentle or 
simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gen- 
try may be good things where they take : but for 
my part, I never saw much good of them at the 
sign of the Harrow." — Thus saying, slie ran up a 
narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen 
to a room over-head ; and I soon perceived, by the 
loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her re- 
proaches, that no money was to be had from her 
lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very dis- 
tinctly: "Out, I say; pack out this moment! tramp, 
thou infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark 
thou won't be the better for these three months. 
What! you trumpery, to come and take up an 
honest house without cross or coin to bless your- 
self with; come along, I say." — "O dear madam," 
cried the stranger, "pity me, pity a poor abandon- 
ed creature for one night, and death will soon do 
the rest." — I instantly knew the voice of my poor 
ruined child Olivia; I flew to her rescue, while the 
woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I 
caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. — "Wel- 
come, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my 
treasure, to your poor old father's bosom! Though 
the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the 
world that will never forsake thee; though thou 
hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will 
forget them all." — " O my own dear" — for minutes 
she could say no more — "my own dearest good 
papa! coidd angels be kinder! how do I deserve so 
much! — The villain, I hate him and myself, to be 
a reproach to such goodness. You can't forgive 
me, I know you can not." — " Yes, my child, from 
my heart I do forgive thee ! Only repent, and we 
both shall yet be happy. We shall see many plea- 
sant days yet, my Olivia!" — "Ah! never, sir, 
never. The rest of my wretched life must be in- 
famy abroad, and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, 
you look much paler than you used to do. Could 
such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness 1 
Surely you have too much wisdom to take the mise- 
ries of my guilt upon yourself;" — " Our wisdom, 
young woman," replied I — "Ah, why so cold a 
name, papa?" cried she. " This is the first time 
you ever called me by so cold a name." — " I ask 
pardon, my darling," returned I; "but I was going 
to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence 
against trouble, though at last a sure one." The 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



97 



landlady now returned to know if we did not choose 
a more genteel apartment; to which assenting, we 
Were shown a room where we could converse more 
freely. After we had talked ourselves into some 
degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring 
some account of the gradations that led to her pre 
sent wretched situation. " That villain, sir," said 
she, " from the first day of our meeting, made me 
honourable though private proposals." 

"Villain, indeed!" cried I: "and yet it in some 
measure surprises me, how a person of Mr. Burch 
ell's good sense and seeming honour could be guilty 
of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a 
family to tmdo it." 

"My dear papa," returned my daughter, "you 
labour under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell 
never attempted to deceive me; instead of that, he 
took every opportunity of privately admonishing 
me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who I 
now find was even worse than he represented him." 
"Mr. Thornhill!" interrupted I; "can it be7" — 
"Yes, sir," returned she; "it was Mr. Thornhill 
who seduced me; who employed the two ladies, as 
he called them, but who in fact were abandoned 
women of the town, without breeding or pity, to 
decoy us up to London. Their artifices you may 
remember would have certainly succeeded, but for 
Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those reproach- 
es at them, which we all applied to ourselves. How 
he came to have so much influence as to defeat 
their intentions, still remains a secret to me; but I 
am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest 
friend." 

"You amaze me, my dear," cried I; "but now 
I find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's base- 
ness were too well grounded : but he can triumph 
in security; for he is rich and we are poor. But 
tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation 
that could thus obhterate all the impressions of 
such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as 
thine." 

"Indeed, sir," replied she, "he owes all his tri- 
umph to the desire I had of making him, and not 
myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our 
marriage, which was privately performed by a po- 
pish priest, was no way binding, and that I had 
nothing to trust to but his honour." — "What!" 
interrupted I, " and were you indeed married by a 
priest, and in orders'?" — " Indeed, sir, we were," 
replied she, "though we were both sworn to con- 
ceal his name." — " Why, then, my child, come to 
toy arms again ; and now you are a thousand times 
more welcome than before ; for you are now his wife 
to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of 
man, though written upon tables of adamant, les- 
sen the force of that sacred connexion." 

"Alas, papa," repKed she, "you are but little 
acquainted with his villanies; he has been married 
already by the same priest to six or eight wives 



more, whom, like me, he has deceived and aban- 
doned." 

"Has he so?" cried I, "then we must hang the 
priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow." 
"But, sir," returned she, " will that be right, when 
I am sworn to secrecy?" — " My dear," I replied, 
"if you have made such a promise, I can not, nor 
will I tempt you to break it. Even though it may 
benefit the public, you must not inform against him. 
In all human institutions a smaller evil is allowed 
to procure a greater good; as in politics, a province 
may be given away to secure a kingdom; in medi- 
cine, a limb may be lopped off to preserve the body; 
but in religion, the law is written, and inflexible, 
never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; 
for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to pro- 
cure a greater good, certain guilt would be thus 
incurred, in expectation of contingent advantage. 
And though the advantage should certainly follow, 
yet the interval between commission and advan- 
tage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in 
which we are called away to answer for the things 
we have done, and the volume of human actions is 
closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear ; go 
on." 

"The very next morning," continued she, "I 
found what Uttle expectation I was to have from 
his sincerity. That very morning he introduced 
me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, 
he had deceived, but who lived in contented pros- 
titution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such ri- 
vals in his affections, and strove to forget my in- 
famy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I 
danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was unhappy. 
The gentlemen who visited there told me every 
moment of the power of my charms, and this only 
contributed to increase my melancholy as I had 
thrown all their power quite away. Thus each 
day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till 
at last the monster had the assurance to offer me 
to a young baronet of his acquaintance. Need I 
describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung me? My 
answer to this proposal was almost madness. I 
desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a 
purse ; but I flung it at him with indignation, and 
burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me 
insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I 
soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, ab- 
ject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world 
to apply to. Just in that interval a stage-coach 
happening to pass by, I took a place, it being my 
aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I de- 
spised and detested. I was set down here, where, 
since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's 
unkindness have been my only companions. The 
hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mzim- 
ma and sister now grow painful to rae. Their sor- 
rows are much ; but mine are greater than theirs, 
for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy." 



98 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



" Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope 
things will yet be better. Take some repose to- 
night, and to-morrow I'll carry you home to your 
mother and the rest of the family, from whom you 
will receive a kind reception. — Poor woman! this 
has gone to her heart: but she loves you still, 
Olivia, and will forget it." 



CHAPTER XXII. 

Offences are easily pardoned where there is Love at bottom. 

The next morning I took my daughter behind 
me, and set out on my return home. As we travel- 
ed along, I strove by every persuasion to calm her 
sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution 
to bear the presence of her offended mother. 1 
took every opportunity from the prospect of a fine 
countrj', through which we passed, to observe how 
much kinder heaven was to us than we to each 
other, and that the misfortunes of nature's making 
were very few. I assm-ed her, that she should 
never perceive any change in my affections, and 
that during my life, which yet might be long, she 
might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. 
I armed her against the censures of the world, 
showed her that books were sweet imreproaching 
companions to the miserable, and that if they could 
not bring us to enjoy hfe, they would at least teach 
us to endure it. 

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up 
that night at an inn by the way, within about five 
miles from my house; and as I was wilhng to pre- 
pare my family for my daughter's reception, I de- 
termined to leave her that night at the inn, and to 
return for her, accompanied by my daughter So- 
plna, early the next morning. It was night before 
we reached our appointed stage: however, after 
seeing her provided vrith a decent apartment, and 
having ordered the hostess to prepare proper re- 
freshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards 
home. And now my heart caught new sensations 
of pleasure the nearer I approached that peaceful 
mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from 
its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and ho- 
vered round my httle fire-side with all the rapture 
of expectation. I called up the many fond tilings 
I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to 
receive. I already felt my wife's tender embrace, 
and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I 
walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The 
labourers of the day were all retired to rest; the 
lights were out in every cottage ; no sounds were 
heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep- 
mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. I approach- 
ed my httle abode of pleasure, and before I was 
within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff 
came running to welcome me. 



It was now near midnight that I came to knock 
at my door; — all was still and silent; — my heart 
dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my 
amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze 
of fire, and every aperture red with conflagration! 
I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the 
pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who 
had till this been asleep, and he perceiving the 
flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter; and 
all running out, naked, and wild with apprehen- 
sion, recalled me to life with their anguish. But 
it was only to objects of new terror; for the flames 
had by this time caught the roof of our dwelling, 
part after part continuing to fall in, while the fami- 
ly stood with silent agony looking on as if they 
enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it 
by turns, and then looked round me for my two 
little ones; but they were not to be seen. O mise- 
ry! " Where," cried I, " where are my little ones?" 
" They are burnt to death in the flames," says my 
wife, calmly, "and I will die with them." — That 
moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who 
were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could 
have stopped me. " Where, where are my chil- 
dren'?" cried I, rushing through the flames, and 
bursting the door of the chamber in which they 
were confined; "Where are my httle ones?" — 
" Here, dear papa, here we are," cried they to- 
gether, while the flames were just catching the bed 
where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, 
and snatched them through the fire as fast as pos- 
sible, while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. 
" Now," cried I, holding up my children, " now 
let the flames burn on, and all my possessions per- 
ish. Here they are; I have saved my treasure. 
Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we 
shall yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings 
a thousand times; they clasped us round the neck, 
and seemed to share our transports, while t4ieir 
mother laughed and wept by turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and 
after some tune began to perceive that my arm to 
the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It 
was therefore out of my power to give my son any 
assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, 
or preventing the flames spreading to our com. By 
this time the neighbours were alarmed, and came 
running to our assistance ; but aU they could do 
was to stand, like us, spectators of the calamity. 
My goods, among which were the notes I had re- 
served for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely 
consumed, except a box with some papers that 
stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more 
of httle consequence, which my son brought away 
in the beginning. The neighbours contributed, 
however, what they could to lighten our distress. 
They brought us clothes, and furnished one of our 
out-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day- 
light we had another, though a wretched dwelling, 



THfi VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



99 



to retire to. My honest next neiglibour and liis 
children were not the least assiduous in providing us 
with every thing necessary, and offering whatever 
consolation untutored benevolence could suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, cu- 
riosity to know the cause of my long stay began to 
take place : having therefore informed them of every 
particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the re- 
ception of our lost one, and though we had nothing 
but wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to 
procure her a welcome to what we had. This task 
would have been more difficult but for our recent 
calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, and 
blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being un- 
able to go for my poor child myself, as my arm 
grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, 
who soon returned, supporting the wretched de- 
linquent, who had not the courage to look up at 
her mother, whom no instructions of mine coiild 
persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women 
have a much stronger sense of female error than 
men. " Ah, madam," cried her mother, " This is 
but a poor place you are come to after so much 
finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but 
little entertaininent to persons who have kept com- 
pany only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss 
Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very 
much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.'" 
During this reception, the unhappy victim stood 
pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply : but 
I could not continue a silent spectator of her dis- 
tress ; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in 
my voice and manner, which was ever followed 
with instant submission, " I entreat, woman, that 
my words may be now marked once for all : I have 
here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; 
her return to duty demands the revival of our ten- 
derness. The real hardships of life are now com- 
ing fast upon us; let us not, therefore, increase 
them by dissension among each other! If we live 
harmoniously together we may yet be contented, 
as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring 
world, and keep each other in countenance. The 
kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, 
and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, 
we are assured, is much more pleased to view a re- 
pentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have 
supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And 
this is right; for that single effort by which we stop 
short in the dovm-hill path to perdition, is itself a 
greater exertion of virtue than a hundred acts of 
justice." 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable. 

Some assiduity was now required to make our 
present abode as convenient as possible, and we 



were soon again qualified to enjoy our former se- 
renity. Being disabled myself from assisting my 
son in our usual occupations, I read to my family 
from the few books that were saved, and particu- 
larly fi'om such as, by amusing the imagination, 
contributed to ease the heart. Our good neigh- 
bours, too, came every day with the kindest condo- 
lence, and fixed a time in which they were all to 
assist in repairing my former dwelling. Honest 
Farmer Williams was not the last among these 
visiters; but heartily offered his friendship. He 
would even have renewed his addresses to my 
daughter; but she rejected him in such a manner 
as totally repressed his future solicitations. — Her 
grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was 
the only person of our little society that a week 
did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that 
unblushing innocence which once taught her to 
respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. — 
Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her 
mind ; her beauty began to be impaired with her 
constitution, and neglect still more contributed to 
diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on her 
sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her 
eye; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants 
others where it has been, so her former guilt, though 
driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy 
behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her 
care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for 
hers, collecting such amusing passages of history 
as a strong memory and some reading could sug- 
gest. — " Our happiness, my dear," I would say, 
" is in the power of one who can bring it about a 
thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. 
If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you 
a story, my child, told us by a grave, though some- 
times a romancing, historian. 

" MatOda was married very young to a Neapohtan 
nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a 
widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she 
stood one day caressing her infant son in the open 
window of an apartment which hung over the river 
Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped 
from her arms into the flood below, and disappear- 
ed in a moment. The mother, struck with in- 
stant surprise, and making an effort to save liim, 
plunged in after; but far from being able to assist 
the mfant, she herself with great difficvdty escape 
to the opposite shore, just when some French sol- 
diers were plundering the country on that side, 
who immediately made her their prisoner. 

" As the war was then carried on between the 
French and ItaUans with the utmost inhumanity, 
they were going at once to perpetrate those two 
extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This 
base resolution, however, was opposed by a young 
officer, who, though their retreat required the 
utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and 
brought her in safety to his native city. Her beau- 



100 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ty at first caught his eye, her merit soon after his 
heart. They were married ; he rose to the highest 
posts; they Uved long together, and were happy. 
But the felicity of a soldier can never be called per- 
manent: after an interval of several years, the 
troops which he commanded having met with a re- 
pulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city 
where he had lived with his wife. Here they suf- 
fered a siege, and the city at length was taken. 
Few histories can produce more various instances 
of cruelty than those which the French and Ital- 
ians at that time exercised upon each other. It 
was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to 
put all the French prisoners to death; but particu- 
larly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as 
he was principally instrumental in protracting the 
siege. Their determinations were in general exe- 
cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The cap- 
tive soldier was led forth, and the executioner with 
his sword stood leady, while the spectators in 
gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was 
only suspended till the general, who presided as 
judge, should give the signal. It was in this inter- 
val of anguish and expectation that Matilda came 
to take a last farewell of her husband and deliverer, 
deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty 
of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a pre- 
mature death in the river Volturna, to be the spec- 
tator of still greater calamities. The general, who 
was a young man, was struck with surprise at her 
beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still 
stronger emotions when he heard her mention her 
former dangers. He was her son, the infant for 
whom she had encountered so much danger. He 
acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell 
at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed ; the 
captive was set free, and all the happiness that 
love, friendship, and duty could confer on each, 
were united." 

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my 
daughter, but she Hstened with divided attention ; 
for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she 
once had for those of another, and nothing gave 
her ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and 
in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the 
colour of her wretchedness, when we received 
certain information that Mr. Thornhill was going 
to be married to MissWilmot, for whom 1 always 
suspected he had a real passion, though he took 
every opportunity before me to express his con- 
tempt both of her person and fortune. This news 
only served to increase poor Olivia's affliction : such 
a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her 
coiurage could support. I was resolved, however, 
to get more certain information, and to defeat if 
possible the completion of his designs, by sending 
my son to old Mr. Wilmot's with instructions to 
know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss 
Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thornhill's coH' 



duct in my family. My son went in pursuance 
of my directions, and in three days returned, as- 
suring us of the truth of the account; but that he 
had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which 
he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thorn- 
hill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the 
country. They were to be married, he said, in a 
few days, having appeared together at church the 
Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, 
the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by 
as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials 
filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they 
usually rode out together in the grandest equipage 
that had been seen in the country for many j^ears. 
All the friends of both families, he said, were there, 
particularly the 'Squire's uncle, Sir William Thorn- 
hill, who bore so good a character. He added, 
that nothing but mirth and feasting were going 
forward; that all the country praised the young 
bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person, 
and that they were immensely fond of each other; 
concluding, that he could not help thinking Mr. 
Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world. 

"Why, let him, if he can," returned I: "but, 
my son, observe this bed of straw, and unsheltering 
roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor ; my 
wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my chil- 
dren weeping round me for bread ; — you have come 
home, my child, to all this; yet here, even here, you 
see a man that would not for a thousand worlds ex- 
change sitviations. O, my children, if you could 
but learn to commune with your own hearts, and 
know what noble company you can make them, 
you would little regard the elegance and splendour 
of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught 
to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. 
The similitude still may be improved, when we ob- 
serve that the good are joyful and serene, like trav- 
ellers that are going towards home; the wicked but 
by intervals happy, Uke travellers that are going in- 
to exile." 

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpow- 
ered by this new disaster, interrupted what I had 
further to observe. I bade her mother support her, 
and after a short time she recovered. She appeared 
from that time more calm, and I imagined had gain- 
ed a new degree of resolution : but appearances de- 
ceived me; for her tranquillity was the languor of 
over-wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, 
charitably sent us by my Idnd parishioners, seem- 
ed to diffuse new cheerfulness among the rest of 
the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them 
once more sprightly and at ease. It would have 
been unjust to damp their satisfactions, merely to 
condole with resolute mekincholy, or to burden 
them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus once 
more the tale went round, and the song was de- 
manded, and cheerfulness condescended to hover 
round our little habitation. 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



101 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



Fresh Calamities. 



The next morning the sun arose with peculiar 
warmth for the season, so that we agreed to break- 
fast together on the honey-suckle bank; where, 
while we sat, my youngest daughter at my request 
joined her voice to the concert on the trees about 
us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met 
her seducer, and every object served to recall her 
sadness. But that melancholy which is excited by 
objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of har 
mony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it 
Her mother, too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing 
distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as be 
fore. " Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, "let us 
have that little melancholy air your papa was so 
fond of; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. 
Do, child, it will please your old father." She 
complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as 
moved me. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy^ 
What art can wash her guilt av/ay? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom — is to die. 

As she was concluding the last stanza, to which 
an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave pe- 
culiar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's 
equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particu- 
larly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daugh- 
ter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, re- 
turned to the house with her sister. In a few 
minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and 
making up to the place where I was still sitting, 
inquired after my health with his usual air of fa- 
miliarity. "Sir," repHed I, " your present assur- 
ance only serves to aggravate the baseness of your 
■ character; and there was a time when I would have 
chastised your insolence for presuming thus to ap 
pear before me. But now you are safe; for age 
has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains 
them." 

" I vow, my dear sir," returned he, "I am amazed 
at all this; nor can I understand what it means! I 
hope you don't tlunkyour daughter's late excursion 
with me had any thing criminal in it?" 

" Go," cried I, " thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful 
wretch, and every way a liar: but your meanness 
secures you from my anger! Yet, sir, I am de- 
scended from a family that would not have borne 
this! — And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a mo- 
mentary passion, thou hast made one poor creature 



wretched for life, and polluted a family that had 
nothing but honour for their portion!" 

" If she or you," returned he, " are resolved to 
be miserable, I can not help it. But you may still 
be happy; and whatever opinion you may have 
formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to con- 
tribute to it. We can marry her to another in a 
short time, and what is more, she may keep her 
lover beside; for I protest I shall ever continue to 
have a true regard for her." 

I found all my passions alarmed at this new de- 
grading proposal ; for though the mind may often 
be calm under great injuries, little villany can at 
any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. 
"Avoid my sight, thou reptile!" cried I, "nor con- 
tinue to insult me with thy presence. Were my 
brave son at home he would not suffer this; but I 
am old and disabled, and every way undone." 

"I find," cried he, "you are bent upon obliging 
me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. 
But as I have shown you what may be hoped from 
my friendship, it may not be improper to represent 
what may be the consequences of my resentment. 
My attorney, to whom your late bond has been 
transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to 
prevent the course of justice, except by paying the 
money myself, which, as I have been at some ex- 
penses lately, previous to my intended marriage, is 
not so easy to be done. And then my steward 
talks of driving for the rent: it is certain he knows 
his duty; for I never trouble myself with affairs of 
that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, 
and even to have you and your daughter present 
at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized 
with Miss Wilmot; it is even the request of my 
charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will 
not refuse." 

" Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for 
all : As to your marriage with any but my daugh- 
ter, that I never will consent to; and though your 
friendship could raise me to a throne, or your re- 
sentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise 
both. Thou hast once wofuUy, irreparably de- 
ceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, 
and have found its baseness. Never more there- 
fore expect friendship from me. Go, and possess 
what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, 
and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, 
disease, and soiTow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall 
my heart still vindicate its dignity; and though 
thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my 
contempt." 

"If so," returned he, "depend upon it you shall 
feel the effects of this insolence : and we shall short- 
ly see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or 
me." — Upon which he departed abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this in- 
terview, seemed terrified with the apprehension. 
My daughters, also, finding that he was gone, camp 



103 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



out to be informed of the result of our conference, 
which, when known, alarmed them not less than 
the rest. But as to myself, 1 disregarded the utmost 
stretch of his malevolence : he had already struck 
the blow, and now "l stood prepared to repel every 
new effort; like one of those instruments used in 
the art of war, which, however thrown, still pre- 
sents a point to receive the enemy. 

We soon however found that he had not threat- 
ened in vain : for the very next morning his stew- 
ard came to demand my annual rent, which, by 
tlie train of accidents already related, I was unable 
to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was 
his driving my cattle that evening, and their being 
appraised and sold the next day for less than half 
their value. — My wife and children now therefore 
■entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather 
than incur certain destruction. They even begged 
of me to admit his visits once more, and used all 
their little eloquence to paint the calamities I was 
going to endure; — the terrors of a prison in so 
rigorous a season as the present, with the danger 
that threatened my health from the late accident 
that happened by the fire. But I continued in- 
flexible. 

"Why, my treasures," cried I, "why will you 
thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not 
right! My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but 
luy conscience will not permit me to approve. 
Would you have me applaud to the world what my 
heart must internally condemn7 Would you have 
me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous be- 
trayer; and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer 
the more galling bonds of mental confinement? No, 
never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only 
let us hold to the right; and wherever we are 
thrown, we can still retire to a charming apartment, 
when we can look round our own hearts with in- 
ti'opidity and with pleasure!" 

In this manner we spent that evening. Early 
the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great 
abundance in the night, my son was employed in 
clearing it away, and opening a passage before the 
.door. He had not been thus engaged long, when 
he eame running in, with looks all pale, to tell us 
that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of 
the justice, were making towards the house. 

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching 
the bed where I lay, after previously informing me 
..of their employment and business, made me their 
prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to 
the county gaol, which was eleven miles off. 

" My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in 
which you have come to take me to a prison; and 
it is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of 
my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible man- 
ner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I 
want clothes to cover me ; and I am now too weak 



and old to walk far in such deep snow; but if it 

must be so " 

1 then turned to my wife and children, and di- 
rected them to get together what few things were 
left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this 
place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and de- 
sired my son to assist his eldest sister, who, from a 
consciousness that she was the cause of all our ca- 
lamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insen- 
sibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and 
trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her 
arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading 
to look round at the strangers. In the mean time 
my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, 
and as she received several hints to use dispatch, 
in about an hour we were ready to depart. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of 
comfort attending it. 

We set forward from tliis peaceful neighbour- 
hood, and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter 
being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun 
for some days to undermine her constitution, one 
of the ofHcers, who had a horse, kindly took her 
behind him; for even these men can not entirely di- 
vest themselves of humanity. My son led one of 
the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, 
while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears 
fell not for her own but my distresses. 

We were now got from my late dwelling about 
two miles, when we saw a crowd running and 
shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my 
poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful impre- 
cations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, 
and swearing they would never see their minister 
go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in 
his defence, were going to use them with great se- 
verity. The consequence might have been fatal 
had I not immediately interposed, and with some 
difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the 
enraged multitude. My children, who looked up- 
on my delivery now as certain, appeared transport- 
ed with joy, and were incapable of containing their 
raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon 
hearing me address the poor deluded people, who 
came as they imagined to do me service. 

"What! my friends," cried I, "and is this the 
way you love me7 Is this the manner you obey 
the instructions I have given you from the pulpif? 
Thus to fly in the face of jpstice, and bring down 
ruin on yourselves and me! Which is your ring- 
leader! Show me the man that has thus seduced, 
you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resent- 
ment — Alas! my dear deluded flock, return back to 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



103 



the duty you owe to God, to your country, and to 
me. I shall yet perhaps one day see ybu in greater 
felicity here, and contribute to make your lives 
more happy. But let it at least be my comfort 
when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one 
here shall be wanting." 

They now seemed all repentance, and melting 
into tears, came one after the other to bid me fare- 
well. 1 shook each tenderly by the hand, and leav- 
ing them my blessing, proceeded forward without 
meeting any further interruption. Some hours be- 
fore night we reached the to^vn, or rather village, 
for it consisted but of a few mean houses, having 
lost all its former opulence, and retaining no marks 
of its ancient superiority but the gaol. 

Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we 
had such refreshments as could most readily be 
procured, and I supped with my family with my 
usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly 
accommodated for that night, I next attended the 
sheriff's officers to the prison, which had formerly 
been built for the purpose of war, and consisted of 
one large apartment, strongly grated and paved 
with stone, common to both felons and debtors at 
certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides 
this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he 
was locked in for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing 
but lamentations and various sounds of misery : but 
JLt was very different. The prisoners seemed all 
employed in one common design, that of forgetting 
thought in merriment or clamour. 1 was apprized 
of the usual perquisite required upon these occa- 
sions, and immediately complied with the demand, 
though the little money I had was very near being 
all exhausted. This was immediately sent away 
for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled with 
riot, laughter, and profaneness. 

" How," cried I to myself, " shall men so very 
wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy? I 
feel only the same confinement with them, and I 
thinlc I have more reason to be happy." 

With such reflections I laboured to become 
cheerful, but cheerfulness was never yet produced 
by effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting, 
therefore, in a corner of the gaol in a pensive pos- 
ture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sit- 
ting by me, entered into conversation. It was my 
constant rule in life never to avoid the conversation 
of any man who seemed to desire it : for, if good, 1 
might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he might be 
assisted by mine. I found this to be a kno^ving 
man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough 
knowledge of the world, as it is called, or more 
properly speaking, of human nature on the wrong 
side. He asked me if I had taken care to provide 
myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I had 
never attended to. 

" That's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are al- 



lowed here nothing but straw, and your apartment 
is very large and cold. However, you seem to be 
something of a gentleman, and as I have been one 
myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are heart- 
ily at your service." 

I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding 
such humanity in a gaol in misfortunes; adding, to 
let him see that I was a scholar, " That the sage 
ancient seemed to understand the value of company 
in affliction, when he said, Ton kosmon aire, ei 
dos ton etairon; and in fact," continued I, "what 
is the world if it affords only solitude 7" 

"You talk of the world, sir," returned my fel- 
low-prisoner; " the world is in its dotage ; and yet 
the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled 
the philosophers of every age. What a medley of 
opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world I Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, 
and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. 
The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai 
atelutaion to pan, which imply — " " I ask pardon, 
sir," cried I, "for interrupting so much learning; 
but I think I have heard all this before. Have I 
not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Wel- 
bridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenldn- 
son7" At this demand he only sighed. " I sup- 
pose you must recollect," resumed I, "one Doctor 
Primrose, from whom you bought a horse?" 

He now at once recollected me ; for the gloomi 
ness of the place and the approaching night had 
prevented his distinguishing my features before. — 
" Yes, sir," returned Mr. Jenkinson, "I remember 
you perfectly well; I bought a horse, but forgot to 
pay for him. Your neighbour Flamborough is the 
only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next 
assizes; for he intends to swear positively against 
me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever 
deceived you, or indeed any man; for j'ou see," 
continued he, showing his shackles, "what my 
tricks have brought me to." 

'Well, sir," repUed 1, "your kindness in offer- 
ing me assistance when you could expect no return, 
shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften or to- 
tally suppress Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I 
will send my son to him for that purpose the first 
opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt but he will 
comply with my request; and as to my own evi- 
dence you need be under no imeasiness about that." 

' Well, sir," cried he, " all the return I can mak'e 
shall be yours. You shall have more than half 
my bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand 
your friend in the prison, where I think I have 
some influence," 

I thanked him, and could not avoid being sur- 
prised at the present youthful change in his aspect; 
for at the time I had seen him before, he appeared 
at least sixty. — "Sir," answered he, "you are lit- 
tle acquainted with the world; I had at that time 
false hair, and have learned the art of counterfeit* 



104 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ing every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah ! sir, 
had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a 
trade that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I 
might have been a rich man at this day. But rogue 
as I am, still I may be your friend, and that per- 
haps wrhen you least expect it." 

We were now prevented from further conversa- 
tion by the arrival of the gaoler's servants, who 
came to call over the prisoners' names, and lock up 
for the night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw 
for my bed attended, who led me along a dark nar- 
row passage into a room paved like the common 
prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed, 
and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner ; 
which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, 
bade me a good night. After my usual medita- 
tions, and having praised my Heavenly Corrector, 
1 laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tran- 
quillity till morning. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Reformation in the Gaol.— To make Laws complete, they 
should Reward as well as Punish. 

The next morning early I was awakened by my 
family, whom I found in tears at my bed-side. The 
gloomy strength of every thing about us, it seems, 
had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, 
assuring them I had never slept with greater tran- 
quiUity, and next inquired after my eldest daugh- 
ter, who was not among them. They informed 
me that yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had in- 
creased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave 
her behind. My next care was to send my son to 
procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as 
near the prison as conveniently could be found. 
He obeyed ; but could only find one apartment, 
which was hired at a small expense for his mother 
and sisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting 
to let him and his two little brothers lie in the pri- 
son with me. A bed was therefore prepared for 
them in a corner of the room, which I thought an- 
swered very conveniently. I was willing, however, 
previously to know whether my children chose to 
lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon 
entrance. 

"Well,'' cried I, "my good boys, how do you 
like your bed? I hope you are not afraid to he in 
this room, dark as it appears!" 

"No, papa," says Dick, "I am not afraid to He 
any where where you are." 

"And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years 
old, " love every place best that my papa is in." 

After tliis I allotted to each of the family what 
they were to do. My daughter was particularly 



directed to watch her declining sister's health ; my 

wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to read ' you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty 



to me. " And as for you, my son," continued I, 
" it is by the labour of your hands we must all hope 
to be supported. Your wages as a day-labourer 
will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to 
maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art 
now sixteen years old, and hast strength ; and it 
was given thee, my son, for very useful purposes ; 
for it must save from famine your helpless parents 
and family. Prepare then this evening to look out 
for work against to-morrow, and bring home every 
night what money you earn for our support." 

Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, 
I walked down to the common prison, where I 
could enjoy more air and room. But I was not 
long there when the execrations, lewdness, and 
brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me 
back to m}'' apartment again. Here I sat for some 
time pondering upon the strange infatuation of 
wretches, who, finding all manldnd in open arms 
against them, were labouring to make themselves 
a future and a tremendous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compas- 
sion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. 
It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to at- 
tempt to reclaim them. I resolved therefore once 
more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, to 
give them my advice, and conquer them by my per- 
severance. Going therefore among them again, I 
informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at which he. 
laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. 
The proposal was received with the greatest good- 
humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of en- 
tertainment to persons who had now no other re- 
source for mirth, but what could be derived from 
ridicule or debauchery. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service with 
a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience 
perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whis- 
pers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking, and 
coughing, alternately excited laughter. However, 
I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, 
sensible that what I did might mend some, but 
could itself receive no contamination from any. 

After reading I entered upon my exhortation, 
which was rather calculated at first to amuse them 
than to reprove. I previously observed, that no 
other motive but their welfare could induce me to 
this; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got 
nothing by preaching. I was sorry, 1 said, to hear 
them so very profane ; because they got nothing by 
it, but might lose a great deal: "For be assured, 
my friends," cried I, " for you are my friends, how- 
ever the world may disclaim your friendship, though 
you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would 
not put one penny in your purse. Then what sig- 
nifies calling every moment upon the devil, and 
courting his friendship, since you find how scurvi- 
ly he uses you? He has given you nothing here, 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



105 



belly; and by the best accounts I have of him, he 
will give you nothing that's good hereafter. 

'" If used ill in our dealings v^ith one man, we 
naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your 
while, then, just to try how you may like the usage 
of another master, who gives you fair promises at 
least to come to him'? Surely, my friends, of all 
■stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, 
who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers 
for protection. And yet how are you more vnse 1 
You are all seeking comfort from -one that has al- 
ready betrayed you, applying to a more malicious 
heing than any thief-taker of them all; for they 
only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys and 
hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not let you 
loose after the hangman has done." 

When I had concluded, I received the compli- 
ments of my audience, some of whom came and 
^hook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very 
honest fellow^ and that they desired my further ac- 
quaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes 
■of making a reformation here; for it had ever been 
my opinion, that no man was past the hour of 
amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts 
of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper 
aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went 
back to my apartment, where my wife prepared a 
frugal meal, while Mr. Jenlcinson begged leave to 
add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, 
as he was land enough to express it, of my con- 
versation. He had not yet seen my family; for as 
they came to my apartment by a door in tlie nar- 
row passage already described, by this means they 
avoided the common prison. Jenkinson at the first 
interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with 
the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her 
pensive air contributed to heighten; and my Uttle 
<3nes did not pass unnoticed. 

"Alas, doctor," cried he, " these children are too 
handsome and too good for such a place as this!" 

" Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Hea- 
ven, my children are pretty tolerable in morals; 
and if tliey be good, it matters Uttle for the rest." 
" I fancy, sir," returned my fellow -prisoner, 
"that it must give you great comfort to have all 
this httie family about you." 

"A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson!" replied I; "yes, 
it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without 
them for all the world; for they can make a dun- 
geon seem a palace. There is but one way in this 
life of wounding my happiness, and that is by in- 
juring them." 

" I am afraid then, sir," cried he, " that I am in 
some measure culpable; for I think I see here (look- 
ing at my son Moses), one that I have injured, and 
by whom I wish to be forgiven." 

My son immediately recollected his voice and 
'features, though he had before seen him in dis- 



guise, and taking him by the hand, with a smiT® 
forgave him. " Yet," continued he, "I can't help 
wondering at what yoa could see in my face, to 
think me a proper mark for deception." 

" My dear sir," returned the other, " it was not 
your face, but your white stockings, and the black 
riband in your hair, that allured me. But no dis- 
paragement to your parts, I have deceived wiser 
men than you in my time ; and yet, with all my 
tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me 
at last." 

" I suppose," cried my son, "that the narrative 
of such a life as yours must be extremely instruc- 
tive and amusing." 

" Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson. 
" Those relations which describe the tricks and 
vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion 
in life, retard our success. The traveller that dis- 
trusts every person he meets, and turns back upon 
the appearance of every man that looks like a rob- 
ber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's end." 

" Indeed I think, from my own experience, that 
the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the 
sun. I was thought cunning from my very child- 
hood : when but seven years old, the ladies would 
say that I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen I 
knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the la- 
dies ; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet 
every one thought me so cunning, that not one 
would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to 
turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived 
ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to de- 
ceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of detec- 
tion. I used often to laugh at your honest simple 
neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another 
generally cheated him once a-year. Yet still the 
honest man went forward without suspicion, and 
grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and cun- 
ning, and was poor, without the consolation of be- 
ing honest. However," continued he, "let me 
laiow your case, and what has brought you here ; 
perhaps, though 1 have not skill to avoid a gaol 
myself, I may extricate my friends." 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him 
of the whole train of accidents and follies that had 
plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter 
inability to get free. 

After hearing my story, and pausing some mi- 
nutes, he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit 
upon something material, and took his leave, say- 
ing he would try what could be done. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

The sanie subject continued. 

The next morning, I commimicated to my wife 
and children the scheme I had planned of reform- 
ing the prisoners, which they received with uni- 



108 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



versal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility 
and impropriety of it, adding, that my endeavours 
would no way contribute to their amendment, but 
might probably disgrace my calling. 

"Excuse me," returned I; "these people, how- 
ever fallen, are still men; and that is a very good 
title to my affections. Good counsel rejected, re- 
turns to enrich the giver's bosom; and though the 
instruction I communicate may not mend them, 
yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these vrretch- 
es, my children, were princes, there would be thou- 
sands ready to offer their ministry; but in my opin- 
ion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as pre- 
cious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my trea- 
sures, if I can mend them, I will: perhaps they 
will not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up 
even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ; 
for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the hu- 
man soul?" 

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the 
common prison, where I found the prisoners very 
merry, expecting my arrival; and each prepared 
with some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, 
as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, 
as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A 
second, who stood at some distance, had a knack 
of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers 
upon my book. A third would cry amen in such 
an affected tone, as gave the rest great delight. A 
fourth had slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. 
But there was one whose trick gave more univer- 
sal pleasure than all the rest; for observing the 
manner in which I had disposed my books on the 
table before me, he very dexterously displaced one 
of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his own 
in the place. However, I took no notice of all that 
this mischievous group of little beings could do, but 
went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridicu- 
lous in my attempt would excite mirth only the 
first or second time, while what was serious would 
be permanent. My design succeeded, and in less 
than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. 

It was now that I applauded my perseverance 
and address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches 
divested of every moral feeling ; and now began to 
think of doing them temporal services also by ren- 
dering their situation somewhat more comfortable. 
Their time had hitherto been divided between fam- 
ine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repin- 
ing. Their only employment was quarreling among 
each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobac- 
co-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I 
took the hint of setting such as chose to work at 
cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoe-makers, the 
proper wood being bought by a general subscrip- 
tion, and when manufactured, sold by ray appoint- 
ment , so that each earned something every day — a 
trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the 



punishment of immorality, and rewards for pecu- 
liar industry. Thus in less than a fortnight I had 
formed them into something social and humane, 
and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legis- 
lator, who had brought men from their native fe- 
rocity into friendship and obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative 
power would thus direct the law rather to reforma- 
tion than severity ; that it would seem convinced, 
that the work of eradicating crimes is not by mak- 
ing punishments famUiar, but formidable. Then, 
instead of our present prisons, which find or make 
men guilty, which enclose wretches for the com- 
mission of one crime, and return them, if return- 
ed alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands ; 
we should see, as in other parts of Em*ope, places 
of penitence and solitude, where the accused might 
be attended by such as could give them repentance 
if guilty, or new motives to virtue if innocent. 
And this, but not the increasing punishments, is 
the way to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even 
questioning the validity of that right which social 
combinations have assumed, of capitally punishing 
offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder 
their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, 
from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man 
who has shown a disregard for the life of another. 
Against such, all nature rises in arms; but it is not 
so against him who steals my property. Natural 
law gives me no right to take away his hfe, as, by 
that, the horse he steals is as much his property as 
mine. If then I have any right, it must be from 
a compact made between us, that he who deprives 
the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false 
compact ; because no man has a right to barter his 
hfe any more than to take it away, as it is not his 
own. And beside, the compact is inadequate, and 
would be set aside even in a court of modern equi- 
ty, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling 
convenience, since it is far better that two men 
should live than that one man should ride. But a 
compact that is false between two men, is equally so 
between a hundred or a hundred thousand; for as ten 
millions of circles can never make a square, so the 
united voice of myriads can not lend the smallest 
foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason 
speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. 
Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, 
are very tender of the lives of each other; they 
seldom shed blood but to retahate former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, 
had but few executions in times of peace ; and in 
all commencing governments that have the print 
of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any crime 
is held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community 
that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, 
are laid upon the poor. Government, while it 
grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of 



THE YICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



107 



age; and as if our property were become dearer in 
proportion as it increased; as if the more enormous 
our wealth the more extensive our fears, all our 
possessions are paled up with new edicts every 
day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every 
invader. 

I can not tell whether it is from the number of 
our penal laws, or the licentiousness 6f our people, 
that this country should show more convicts in a 
year than half the dominions of Europe united. 
Perhaps it is owing to both; for they mutually pro- 
duce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal 
laws, a nation beholds the same punishment affixed 
to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no 
distinction in the penalty, the people are led to lose 
all sense of distinction in the crime, and this dis- 
tinction is the bulwark of all morahty: thus the 
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new 
vices call for fresh restraints. 

It were to be wished then, that power, instead 
of contriving new laws to punish vice; instead 
of drawing hard the cords of society till a convul- 
sion come to burst them ; instead of cutting away 
wretches as useless before we have tried their utili- 
ty : instead of converting correction into vengeance, 
— it were to be wished that we tried the restrictive 
arts of government, and made law the protector, 
but not the tyrant of the people. We should then 
find that creatures, whose souls are held as dross, 
only wanted the hand of a refiner : we should then 
find that creatures, now stuck up for long tortures, 
lest luxury should feel a momentary pang, might, 
if properly treated, serve to sinew the state in times 
of danger; that as their faces are like ours, their 
hearts are so too; that few minds are so base as 
that perseverance can not amend ; that a man may 
see his last crime without dying for it ; and that 
very little blood will serve to cement our security. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Happiness and Misery rather the result of prudence than of 
virtue in this life ; temporal evils or felicities heing regard- 
ed by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, and 
unworthy its care in the distribution. 

I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, 
but had not since my arrival been visited by my 
dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Hav- 
ing communicated my wishes to my wife the next 
morning the poor girl entered my apartment lean- 
ing on her sister's arm. The change which I saw 
in her countenance struck me. The numberless 
graces that once resided there were now fled, and 
the hand of death seemed to have moulded gvery 
feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her 
forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon 
her cheek. 

" I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I , " but 



why this dejection, Livy7 I hope, my love, youi 
have too great a regard for me to permit disappoint- 
ment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my 
own. Be cheerful, child, and we yet may see hap- 
pier days." 

" You have ever, sir," replied she, " been kind 
to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never 
have an opportunity of sharing that happiness 3'ou. 
promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved 
for me here; and I long to be rid of a place where 
I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish 
you would make a proper submission to Mr, 
Thornhill ; it may in some measure induce him to 
pity you, and it will give me relief in dying." 

" Never, child," replied I ; "never will I bebrought 
to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute; for though 
the world may look upon your offence with scorn,, 
let it be mine to regard it as a mark of creduHty,, 
not of guilt. — My dear, I am no way miserable in 
this place, however dismal it may seem; and be 
assured, that while you continue to bless me by liv- 
ing, he shall never have my consent to make you 
more wretched by marrying another." 

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow- 
prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly 
enough expostulated upon my obstinacy in refusing, 
a submission which promised to give me freedom. 
He observed, that the rest of my family were not 
to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and 
she the only one who had offended me. " Beside,"' 
added he, "I don't know if it be just thus to ob- 
struct the union of man and wife, wliich you do at 
present, liy refusing to consent to a match you can. 
not hinder, but may render unhappy." 

" Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the 
man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no 
submission I can make could procure me liberty 
even for aii hour. I am told that even in this very 
room a debtor of his, no later than last year, died 
for want. But though my submission and appro- 
bation could transfer me from hence to the most 
beautiful apartment he is possessed of; yet I would 
orant neither, as something whispers me that it 
would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my 
daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever 
be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I 
should be the basest of men, from any resentment 
of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who 
wish for a union. No, villain as he is, I should 
then wish him married, to prevent the consequen- 
ces of his future debaucheries. But now, should I 
not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an in- 
strument which must send my child to the grave, 
merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus, to es- 
cape one pang, break my child's heart with a thou- 
sand?' 

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but 
could not avoid observing, that he feared my daugh- 
ter's life was already too much wasted to keep me 



108 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



long aprisoner. " However," continued he, "though 
you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you 
have no objections to laying your case before the 
uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom 
for every thing that is just and good. I Would ad- 
vise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating 
all his nephew's ill usage, and my life for it, that in 
three days you shall have an answer." I thanked 
him for the hint, and instantly set about comply- 
ing; but I wanted paper, and unluckity all our 
money had been laid out that morning in provisions; 
however, he supplied me. 

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of 
anxiety to know what reception my letter might 
xoeet with ; but in the mean time was frequently 
"solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions 
rather than remain here, and every hour received 
repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter's 
health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but 
I received no answer to my letter : the complaints 
•of a stranger against a favourite nephew were no 
way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes soon va- 
nished like all my former. My mind, however, 
still supported itself, though confinement and bad 
;air began to make a visible alteration in my health, 
and my arm that had suffered in the fire gTe^v 
worse. My children, however, sat by me, and 
while I was stretched on the straw, read to me by 
iturns, or listened and wept at my instructions. 
Butmy daughter's health declined faster than mine: 
every message from her contributed to increase my 
apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after 
I had written the l«tter which was sent to Sir Wil- 
liam Thornhill, I was alarmed with an accoujit 
that she was speechless. Now it was that confine- 
ment was truly painful to me ; my soul was burst- 
ing from its prison to be near the pillow of my 
child, to comfort, to strengthen her, and to receive 
her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to hea- 
ven! Another account came; she was expiring, 
and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weep- 
ing by her. My fellow prisoner some time after 
came with the last account. He bade me be pa- 
tient ; she was dead ! The next morning he re- 
turned, and found me with my two little ones, now 
my only companions, who were using all their in- 
nocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated to 
read to me, and bade me not to crj', for I was now 
too old to weep. "And is not my sister an angel 
now, papa 7" cried the eldest ; " and why then are 
you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel out of this 
frightful place, if my papa were with me." " Yes," 
added my youngest darling, " Heaven, where my 
sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are 
none but good people there, and the people here 
are very bad." 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prat- 
tle by observing, that, now my daughter was no 
more, I should seriously think of the rest of my fa- 



mily, and attempt to save my own life, which was 
every day decUning for want of necessaries and 
wholesome air. He added, that it was now incum- 
bent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of 
my own to the welfare of those who depended on 
me for support ; and that I was now, both by rea- 
son and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my land- 
lord. 

" Heaven be praised," replied I, " there is no 
pride left me now ; I should detest my own heart 
if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. 
On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my 
parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an 
unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I 
have no resentment now, and though he has taken 
from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, 
though he has WTung my heart, — for I am sick al- 
most to fainting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, — 
yet that shall never inspire me with vengeance. I 
am now willing to approve his marriage ; and if 
this submission can do him any pleasure, let him 
know, that if I have done him any injury I am 
sorry for it. 

Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down 
my submission nearly as I have expressed it, to 
which I signed my name. My son was employed 
to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then 
at his seat in the country. He went, and in about 
six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had 
some difiiculty, he said, to get a sight of his land- 
lord, as the servants were insolent and suspicious ; 
but he accidentally saw him as he was going out 
upon business, preparing for his marriage, which 
was to be in three days. He continued to inform 
us, that he stepped up in the humblest manner and 
delivered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill 
had read, he said that all submission was now too 
late and unnecessary; that he had heard of our ap- 
plication to his uncle, which met with the contempt 
it deserved ; and as for the rest, that all future ap- 
plications should be directed to his attorney, not to 
him. He observed, however, that as he had a very 
good opinion of the discretion of the two young la- 
dies, they might have been the most agreeable in- 
tercessors. 

" Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you 
now discover the temper of the man that oppresses 
me. He can at once be facetious and cruel; but 
let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in 
spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now 
drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I 
approach it ; this expectation cheers my afflictions, 
and though I leave a helpless family of orphans be- 
hind me, yet they vsdll not be utterly forsaken ; 
some friend perhaps will be found to assist them 
for the sake of their poor father, and some may 
charitably reheve them for the sake of their Hea- 
venly Father." 

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



109 



that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and 
making efforts, but unable to speak. "Why, my 
love," I cried I, "why will you thus increase my af- 
flictions by your own? What though no submis- 
sions can turn our severe master, though he has 
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and 
though we have lost a darling child, yet still you 
will find comfort in your other children when I 
shall be no more." " We have indeed lost," re- 
turned she, " a darling child. My Sophia, my dear- 
est, is gone ; snatched from us, carried off by ruf- 
fians!" — "How, madam," cried my fellow-prisoner, 
" Miss Sophia carried off by villains ! sure it can 
not be." 

She could only answer with a fixed look and a 
flood of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives who 
was present, and came in with her, gave us a more 
distinct account : she informed us, that as my wife, 
my daughter, and herself were taking a walk toge- 
ther on the great road, a little way out of the vil- 
lage, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and 
instantly stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, 
but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my 
daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid 
the postillion drive on, so that they were out of 
sight in a moment. 

" Now," cried 1, "the sum of my miseries is made 
up, nor is it in the power of any thing on earth to 
give me another pang. What! not one left! not to 
leave me one! — The monster! — The child that was 
next my heart! she had the beauty of an angel, and 
almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that 
woman, nor let her fall. — Not to leave me one!' 

"Alas! my husband," said my wife, "you seem 
to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses 
are great; but I could bear this and more, if I saw 
you but easy. They may take awa}' my children, 
and all the world, if they leave me but you." 

My son, who was present, endeavoured to mo- 
derate her grief; he bade us take comfort, for he 
hoped that we might still have reason to be thank- 
ful. — "My child," cried I, "look round the world, 
and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is 
not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our 
bright prospects only lie beyond the grave?" — 
"My dear father," returned he, "I hope there is 
still sometliing that will give you an interval of sat- 
isfaction; for I have a letter from my brother 
George." — "What of him, child?" interrupted I, 
" does he know our misery? I hope my boy is ex- 
empt from any part of what his wretched family 
suffers?" — "Yes, sir," returned he, " he is perfect- 
ly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings 
nothing but good news; he is the favourite of his 
colonel, who promises to procure him the very next 
lieutenancy that becomes vacant." 

" And are you sure of all this?" cried my wife : 
" Are you sm-e that nothing ill has befallen my 
boy]"— " Nothing indeed, madam," returned my 



son; "you shall see the letter, which will give you 
the highest pleasure ; and if any thing can procure 
you comfort, I am sure that will." — " But are you 
sure," still repeated she, "that the letter is from 
himself, and that he is really so happy?" — "Yes, 
madam," replied he, "it is certainly his, and he will 
one day be the credit and the support of our fami- 
ly." — "Then I thank Providence," cried she, "that 
my last letter to him has miscarried. — Yes, my 
dear," continued she, turning to me, " I will now 
confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore 
upon us in other instances, it has been favourable 
here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was 
in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon liis 
mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, 
to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge 
our cause. But thanks be to Him that directs all 
things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest." — "Wo- 
man," cried I, "thou hast done very ill, and at 
another time my reproaches might have been more 
severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulf hast thou es» 
caped, that would have buried both thee and him 
in endless ruin. Providence indeed has here been 
kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved 
that son to be the father and protector of my chil- 
dren when I shall be away. How unjustly did I 
complain of being stripped of every comfort, when 
still I hear that he is happy, and insensible of our 
afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his wi- 
dowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sis- 
ters. But what sisters has he left? he has no sis- 
ters now; they are all gone, robbed from me, and I 
am undone." — "Father," interrupted my son, "I 
beg you will give me leave to read this letter, I 
know it will please you." Upon which, with my 
permission, he read as follows : — 

' Honoured Sir, 

' I HAVE called off my imagination a few mo- 
ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix 
it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear 
httle fire-side at home. My fancy draws that harm- 
less group at listening to every Une of this with 
great composure. I view those faces with deUght 
which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or 
distress! But whatever your happiness may be at 
home, I am sure it will be some addition to it to 
hear, that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, 
and every way happy here. 

Our regiment is coimtermanded, and is not to 
leave the kingdom: the colonel, who professes him- 
self my friend, takes me with him to all companies 
where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I 
generally find myself received with increased re- 
spect upon repeating it. I danced last night with 

Lady G , and could I forget you know whom, 

I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate 
still to remember others, while I am myself forgotten 
by most of my absent friends; and in this number I 



110 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



fear, sir, that I must consider you; for I have long 
expected the pleasure of a letter from home, to no 
purpose, Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, 
hut seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they 
are two arrant little baggages, and that I am this 
moment in a most violent passion with them : yet 
still, I know not how, tliough I want to bluster a 
little, my heart is respondent only to softer emo- 
tions. Then tell them, sir, that after all I love 
them affectionately, and be assured of my ever re- 



maining 



Your dutiful son.' 



"In all our miseries," cried I, "what thanks 
liave we not to return, that one at least of our fami- 
ly is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven be 
liis guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to he the 
supporter of his widowed mother, and the father of 
these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can 
now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence 
from the temptations of want, and be their conduc- 
tor in the paths of honour!" I had scarcely said 
these words, when a noise lilie that of a tumult 
:seemed to proceed from the prison below; it died 
away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was 
heard along the passage that led to my apartment. 
The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man 
■■•all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest 
•irons. I looked with compassion on the wi-etch as 
he approached me, but with horror when I found 
it was my own son. — " My George! my George! 
and do I behold thee thus? wounded— fettered! 
Is this thy happiness'? is this the manner you re- 
turn to me? O that this sight could break my heart 
at once, and let me die!" 

"Where, sir, is your fortitude?" returned my 
son with an intrepid voice. "I must suffer; my 
life is forfeited, and let them take it." 

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes 
in silence, but I thought I should have died with 
the effort. — " O my boy, my heart weeps to behold 
thee thus ; and I can not, can not help it. In the mo- 
ment that I thought thee blessed, and prayed for thy 
safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, wound- 
edl And yet the death of the youthful is happy. 
But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to 
see this day! To see my children all untimely fall- 
ing about me, while I continue a wretched survivor 
in the midst of ruin! May all the curses that ever 
sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my 

children! May he live, like me, to see " 

'• Hold, sir," replied my son, "or I shall blush for 
thee. How, sir, forgetful of your age, your holy 
calKng, thus to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and 
flincr those curses upward that must soon descend 
to crush thy own gray head with destruction! No, 
sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile 
death I must shortly suffer; to arm me with hope 
and resolution; to give me courage to drink of that 
bitterness which must shortly be my portion," 



' My child, you must not die : I am sure no of- 
fence of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. 
My George could never be guilty of any crune to 
make his ancestors ashamed of him." 

" Mine, sir," returned my son, " is, I fear, an 
unpardonable one. When I received my mother's 
letter from home, I immediately came down, de- 
termined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and 
sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, 
not in person, but by despatching four of his do- 
mestics to seize me. I wounded one who first as- 
saulted me, and I fear desperately; but the rest 
made me their prisoner. The coward is determin- 
ed to put the law in execution agtdnst me; the 
proofs are undeniable : I have sent a challenge, and 
as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I 
see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charm- 
ed me with your lessons of fortitude; let me now,, 
sir, find them in your example." 

" And, my son, you shall find them. I am now 
raised above this world, and all the pleasures it can 
produce. Prom this moment I break from my 
heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and 
will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my 
son, I vsil] point out the way, and my soul shall 
guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our 
fhght together. I now see and am convinced you 
can expect no pardon here ; and I can only exhort 
you to seek it at that greatest tribmial where we 
both shall shortly answer. But let us not be nig- 
gardly in our exhortation, but let all our fellow- 
prisoners have a share: — Good gaoler, let them be 
permitted .to stand here while I attempt to improve 
them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from 
my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only 
to rechne against the wall. The prisoners assem- 
bled themselves according to my directions, for 
they loved to hear my counsel : my son and his mo- 
ther supported me on either side; I looked and saw 
that none were wanting, and then addressed them; 
with the following exhortation. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to> 
the happy and the miserable here belov;.— That from the 
nature of pleasure anil pain, the wretched must be repaid 
the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter. 

My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, 
when I reflect on the distribution of good and evil 
here below, I find that much has been given man 
to enjoy, yet still more to sutler. Though we 
should examine the whole world, we shall not find 
one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish 
for ; but we daily see thousands, who, by suicide, 
show us they have notliing left to hope. In this 
life, then, it appears that we can not be entirely 
blessed, but yet we may be completely miserable. 



*rHE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



Ill 



Why man should thus feel paiu ; why our I after death more desirable, so it smooths the pas- 



wretchedness should be requisite in the formation 
of universal felicity ; why, when all other systems 
are made perfect by the perfection of their subor- 
dinate parts, the great system should require for its 
perfection parts that are not only subordinate to 
others, but imperfect in themselves; — these are 
questions that never can be explained, and might 
be useless if known. Ou this subject, Providence 
has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with 
granting us motives to consolation. 

In this situation man has called in the friendly 
assistance of philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the 
incapacity of that to console him, has given him 
the aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy 
are very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us 
that hfe is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy 
them; and on the other hand, that though we una- 
voidably have miseries here, life is short, and they 
will soon be over. Thus do these consolations de- 
stroy each other ; for, if life is a place of comfort, 
its shortness must be misery, and if it be long, our 
griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak; 
but religion comforts in a higher strain. Man is 
here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparmg 
it for another abode. When the good man leaves 
the body and is all a glorious mind, he will find he 
has been making himself a heaven of happiness 
here ; while the wretch that has been maimed and 
contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body 
with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the 
vengeance of Heaven. To religion then we must 
hold in every circumstance of Ufe for our truest 
comfort ; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure 
to thinli that we can make that happiness unend- 
ing ; and if we are miserable, it is very consoling to 
think that there is a place of rest. Thus, to the 
fortimate, religion holds out a continuance of bliss; 
to the wretched, a change from pain. 

But though rehgion is very kind to all men, it 
has promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy : the 
sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and 
the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in 
our sacred law. The author of our religion every 
where professes himself the wretch's friend, and, 
unUke the false ones of this world, bestows all his 
caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have 
censured this as partiality, as a preference without 
merit to deserve it. But they never reflect, that it 
is not in the power even of Heaven itself to make 
the offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the 
happy as to the miserable. To the first, eternity 
is but a single blessing, since at most it but in- 
creases what they already possess. To the latter, 
it is but a double advantage; for it diminishes their 
pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss 
hereafter. 

But Providence is in another respect kinder to 
the poor than the rich; for as it thus makes the life 



sage there. The wretched have had a long fa- 
miliarity with every face of terror. The man of 
sorrows lays himself quietly down, without pos- 
sessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his de- 
parture: he feels only nature's pang in the final 
separation, and this is no way greater than he has 
often fainted under before; for after a certain de- 
gree of pain, every new breach that death opens in 
the constitution, nature kindly covers with insensi- 
bility. 

Thus Providence has given the wretched two 
advantages over the happy in this life — greater fe- 
licity in dying, and in heaven all that superiority 
of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoy- 
ment. And this superiority, my friends, is no 
small advantage, and seems to be one of the plea- 
sures of the poor man in the parable; for though he 
was already in heaven, and felt all the raptures it- 
could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to 
his happiness, that he had once been wretched, and 
now was comforted; that he had known what it 
was to be miserable; and now felt what it was to be 
happy. 

Thus, my friends, you see religion does what 
pliilosophy could never do : it shows the equal deal- 
ings of Heaven to the happy and the unhappy, ani 
levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same 
standard. It gives to both rich and poor the same, 
happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after 
it; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying, 
pleasure here, the poor have the endless satisfac- 
tion of knowing what it was once to be miserable, 
when crowned with endless felicity hereafter ; and 
even though this should be called a small advan- 
tage, yet being an eternal one, it must make up by 
duration what the temporal happiness of the great 
may have exceeded by intenseness. 

These are, therefore, the consolations which the 
vpretched have peculiar to themselves, and in whick 
they are above the rest of mankind; in other re- 
spects, they are below them. They who would 
know the miseries of the poor, must see Ufe and 
endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages, 
they enjoy, is only repeating what none either be- 
lieve or practise. The men who have the neces- 
saries of living are not poor, and they who want 
them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we 
must be miserable. No vain efforts of a refined 
imagination can soothe the wants of nature, can 
give elastic sweetness to the dark vapour of a dun- 
geon, or ease the throbbings of a broken heart. Let 
the pMosopher from his couch of softness tell us 
that we can resist all these : alas! the effort by 
which we resist them is still the greatest pain. 
Death is shght, and any man may sustain it j but 
torments are dreadful, and these no man can en- 
dure. 

To us then, my friends, the promises of happi- 



112 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ness in heav/m should be peculiarly dear ; for if our 
reward be in this life alone, we are then indeed of 
all men the most miserable. When I look round 
these glooffij' walls, made to terrify as well as to 
confine us ; this light, that only serves to show the 
horrors of the place; those shackles, that tyranny 
las imposed or crime made necessary ; when 1 sur- 
•vey these e maciated looks, and hear those groans, 
01 my friends, what a glorious exchange would 
Ixeavfaa be ft)r these. To fly through regions un- 
confined as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal 
bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, to have 
no master to threaten or insult tis, but the fonn of 
Ooodness himself for ever in our eyes! when I 
think ©f these things, death becomes the messen- 
ger of very glad tidings; when I think of these 
things^ his sharpest arrow becomes the staff' of my 
support; when I think of these things, what is 
there in life worth having? when I think of these 
things, what is there that should not be spurned 
awayl Kings in their palaces should groan for such 
advantages;- but we, humbled as we are, should 
jearn for them. 

And shall these things be ours? Ours they will 
certainly be if we but try for them; and what is a 
(Comfort, we are shut out from many temptations that 
cwould retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them, 
and they will certainly be ours ; and what is still a 
comforii, shortly too: for if we look back on a past 
life, it appears but a very short span, and whatever 
vre may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found 
of less duration; as we grow older, the days seem 
Sto grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever 
lessens the perception of his stay. Then let us 
Aake comfort now, for we shall soon be at our jour- 
ney's end; we shall soon lay down the heavy bur- 
den laid by Heaven upon us; and though death, 
ithe only friend of the wretched, for a little while 
mocks the weary traveller with the view, and like 
his horizon still flies before him; yet the time will 
certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease 
from our toil; when the luxurious great ones of the 
world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when we 
shall think witli pleasure of our sufferings below; 
svhen we shall be surrounded with all our friends, 
«r such as deserved our friendship; when our bliss 
jshall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, un- 
ending. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

Happier prospects begin to appear.— Let us be inflexible, and 
fortune will at last change in our favour. 

When I had thus finished, and my audience was 
retired, the gaoler, who was one of the most hu- 
mane of his profession, hoped I would not be dis- 
pleased, as what he did was but his duty, observ- 



ing, that he* ihust be obliged to remove my son into 
a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to 
revisit me every morning. I Ifhanked him for his 
clemency, and grasping my boy's hand, bade him 
farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that was 
before him. 

I again therefore laid me down, and one of my 
little ones sat by my bed-side reading, when Mr. 
Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was 
news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a 
person about two hours before in a strange gentle- 
man's company, and that they had stopped at ai 
neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemeJ 
as if returning to town. He had scarcely deliverecJ 
this news when the gaoler came with looks of haste 
and pleasure to inform me, that my daughter was 
found. Moses came running in a moment after, 
crying out that his sister Sophy was below, and 
coming up with our old friend Mr. BurchelL 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl 
eiEitered, and with looks almost wild with pleasure, 
ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her mo- 
ther's tears and silence also showed her pleasure — 
"Here, papa," cried the charming girl, "here is. 
the brave man to whom I owe my delivery; to this 
gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my hap- 
piness and safety " A kiss from Mr. Burch- " 

ell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than herSj 
interrupted what she was going to add. 

"Ah, Mr. Burchell," cried I, "this is but a 
wretched habitation you now find us in ; and w& 
are now very different from what you last saw us. 
You were ever our friend : we have long discover- 
ed our errors with regard to you, and repent of our 
ingratitude. After the vile usage you then receiv- 
ed at my hands, I am almost ashamed to behold 
your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive me, as I was 
deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, who under 
the mask of friendship has undone me." 

" It is impossible," replied Mr. Burchell, " that 
I should forgive you, as you never deserved my re- 
sentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and 
as it was out of my power to restrain, I could only 
pity it." 

" It was ever my conjecture," cried I, " that your 
mind was noble, but now I find it so. But tell me, 
my dear child, how thou hast been relieved, or who 
the ruffians were who carried thee away." 

" Indeed, sir," replied she, " as to the villain who 
carried me off", I am yet ignorant. For, as my 
mamma and I were walking out, he came behind 
us, and almost before I could call for help, forced 
me into the post-chaise, and in an instant the 
horses drove away. I met several on the road to 
whom I cried out for assistance, but they disregard- 
ed my entreaties. In the mean time the ruffian 
himself used every art to hinder me from crying out: 
he flattered and threatened by turns, and swore 
that if I continued but silent he intended no harm. 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



lis 



In the mean time I had broken the canvass that he 
had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at some 
distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking 
along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick 
for which we so much used to ridicule him. As 
soon as we came within hearing, I called out to 
him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated 
my exclamations several times, upon which with a 
very loud voice he bid the postillion stop; but the 
boy took no notice, but drove on with still greater 
speed, I now thought he could never overtake us, 
when, in less than a minute, I saw Mr. Burchell 
come running up l)y the side of the horses, and with 
one blow knock the postillion to the ground. The 
horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of them- 
selves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and 
menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at his 
peril to retire; but Mr. Burchell running up shiver- 
ed his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near 
a quarter cf a mile; but he made his escape. I was 
at this time come out myself, willing (o assist my 
deliverer; but he soon returned to me in triumph. 
The postillion, who was recovered, was going to 
make his escape too; but Mr. Burchell ordered him 
at his peril to mount again and drive back to town. 
Finding it impossible to resist, he reluctantly com- 
plied, though the wound be had received seemed tr> 
me at least to be dangerous. He continued to com- 
plain of the pain as wo drove along, so that he at 
last excited Mr. Burchell's compassion, who at my 
request exchanged him for another, at an inn 
where we called on our rctvu-n." 

" Welcome, then," cried I, " my child! and thou, 
her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes! Though 
our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready 
to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you 
have delivered ray girl, if you think she is a recom- 
pense, she is yours ; if you can stoop to an alliance 
with a family so poor as mine, take her ; obtain her 
consent, as I know you have her heart, and you 
have mine. And let me tell you, sir, that I give 
you no small treasure : she has been celebrated for 
beauty, it is true, but that is not my meaning, I 
give you up a treasure in her mind." 

" But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, "that 
you are apprized of my circumstances, and of my 
incapacity to support her as she deserves." 

"If your present objection," replied I, "be meant 
as an evasion of my oifer, I desist : but I know no 
man so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I 
could give her thousands, and thousands sought 
her from me, yet my honest brave Burchell should 
be my dearest choice." 

To all tliis his silence alone seemed to give a 
mortifying refusal, and without the least reply to 
ray offtjr, he demanded if we could not be furnish- 
ed with refreshments fi"om the next inn ; to which 
being answered in the affirmative, he ordered them 
to send in the best dinner that could be provided up- 



on such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of 
their best wine, and some cordials for me ; adding 
with a smile, that he would stretch a little for once, 
and though in a prison, asserted he was never better 
disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his 
appearance with preparations for dinner ; a table 
was lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably 
assiduous; the wine was disposed in order, and tvi'o 
very well-dressed dishes were brought in. 

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor bro- 
ther's melancholy situation, and we all seemed un- 
willing to damp her cheerfulness by the relation. 
But it was in vain that I attempted to appear cheer- 
ful, the circumstances of my unfortunate son broke 
through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I was at 
last obliged to damp our mirth, by relating his mis- 
fortunes, and wishing that he might be permitted 
to share with us in this little interval of satisfaction. 
After my guests were recovered from the conster- 
nation my account had produced, I requested also 
that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, miglit be ad- 
mitted, and tlic gaoler granted my request with an 
air of unusual submission. The clanking of my 
son's irons was no sooner heard along the passage, 
than his sister ran impatiently to meet him ; while 
Mr. Burchell in the mean time asked me, if my 
son's name was George: to which replying in the 
affirmative, he still continued silent. As soon as 
my boy entered the room, I could perceive he re- 
garded Mr. Burchell with a look of astonishment 
and reverence. "Coiue on," cried I, "my son; 
though we are fallen very low, yet Providence has 
been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from 
pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her 
deliverer : to that brave man it is that I am indebt- 
ed for yet having a daughter; give him, my boy, 
the hand of friendship, he deserves our warmest 
gratitude." 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what 
I said, and still continued fixed at respectful dis- 
tance. "My dear brother," cried his sister, 

"why don't you thank my good dehverer? the 
brave should ever love each other." 

He still continued in silence and astonishment 
till our guest at last perceived himself to be known, 
and, assuming all his native dignity, desired my son 
to come forward. Never before had I seen any 
thine so truly majestic as the air he assumed upon 
this occasion. The greastest object in the universe, 
says a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling 
with adversity ; yet there is still a greater, which is 
the good man that comes to relieve it. After he 
had regarded my son for some time with a superior 
air, " I again find," said he, " unthinking boy, that 
the same crime — " But here he was interrupted by 
one of the gaoler's servants, who came to inform us 
that a person of distinction, who had driven into 
town with a chariot and several attendants, sent his 
respects to the gentleman that was with us, and 



114 



GOLDSMITH^S WORKS. 



begged to know when he should think proper to be 
waited upon. — " Bid the fellow wait," cried our 
guest, " till I shall have leisure to receive him;" and 
then turning to my son, " I again find, sir," pro- 
ceeded he, " chat you are guilty of the same offence, 
for which you once had my reproof, and for which 
the law is now preparing its justest punishments. 
You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your 
own life gives you aright to take that of another: 
but where, sir, is the diflerence between a duellist 
who hazards a life of no value, and the murderer 
who acts with greater security 1 Is it any diminu- 
tion of the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that 
he has staked a counter 1" 

" Alas, sir," cried I, " whoever you are, pity the 
poor misguided creature ; for what he has done was 
in obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bit- 
terness of her resentment, required him, upon her 
blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the 
letter, which will serve to convince you of her im- 
prudence, and diminish his guilt." 

He took the letter and hastily read it over. 
" This," says he, " though not a perfect excuse, is 
such a palliation of his fault as induces me to for- 
give him. And, now, sir," continued he, kindly 
taldng my son by the hand, " I see you are sur- 
prised at finding me here ; but 1 have often visited 
prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now 
come to see justice done a worthy man, for whom 
I have the most sincere esteem. I have long been 
a disguised spectator of thy father's benevolence. I 
have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncon- 
taminated by flattery ; and have received that hap- 
piness that courts could not give from the amusing 
simplicity round his fire-side. My nephew has 
been apprised of my intentions of coming here, and 
I find is arrived. It would be wronging him and 
you to condemn him without examination : if there 
be injury, there shall be redress; and this I may 
say, without boasting, that none have ever taxed 
the injustice of Sir William Thornhill." 

We now found the personage whom we had so 
long entertained as a harmless amusing compan- 
ion, was no other than the celebrated Sir William 
Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce- 
ly any were strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell 
was in reality a man of large fortune and great in- 
terest, to whom senates listened with applause, 
and whom party heard with conviction ; who was 
the friend of his country, but loyal to his king. My 
poor wife, recollecting her former famiharity, seem- 
ed to shrink with apprehension; but Sophia, who 
a few moments before thought him her own, now 
perceivhig the immense distance to which he was 
removed hy fortune, was unable to conceal her tears. 
"Ah, sir," cried my wife with a piteous aspect, 
"how is jt ]>ossible that I can ever have your for- 
givcusss ? The shghts you received from me the 
la.st tiir.c I had the honour of seeing you at our 



house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw 
out — these, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven." 

" My dear good lady," returned he with a smilej 
"if you had your joke, I had my answer : I'll 
leave it to all the company if mine were not as 
good as yours. To say the truth, I know nobody 
whom I am disposed to be angry with at present,, 
but the fellow who so frighted my little girl here, 
I had not even time to examine the rascal's person 
so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can 
you tell me, Sophy, my dear, whether you should 
know him again?" 

"Indeed, sir," replied she, "I can't be positive;. 
yet now I recollect he had a large mark over one 
of his eyebrows." — " I ask pardon, madam," inter- 
rupted Jenkinson, who was by, " be so good as to 
inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair?" — 
" Yes, I think so," cried Sophia, " And did your 
honour," continued he, turning to Sir William, 
" observe the length of his legs T' — " I can't be sure 
of their length," cried the baronet, "but I am con- 
vinced of their swiftness; for he outran me, which 
is what I thought few men in the kingdom could 
have done." — "Please your honour," cried Jen- 
kinson, " I know the man : it is certainly the same ; 
the best runner in England; he has beaten Pin- 
wire of Newcastle ; Timothy Baxter is his name. 
I know him perfectly, and the very place of his 
retreat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr. 
Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I'll engage 
to produce him to you in an hour at furthest." 
Upon this the gaoler was called, who instantly 
appearing. Sir William demantled if he knew him. 
" Yes, please your honour," replied the gaoler, " I 
know Sir William Thornhill well, and every body 
that knows any thing of him will desire to know 
more of him." — " Well, then," said the baronetj 
" my request is, that you will permit this man and 
two of your servants to go upon a message by my 
authority ; and as I am in the commission of the 
peace, I undertake to secure you." — " Your pro- 
mise is sufficient," replied the other, " and yon may 
at a minute's warning send them over England' 
whenever your honour thinks fit." 

In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance Jenkin- 
son was dispatched in search of Timothy Baxter, 
while we were amused with the assiduity of our 
youngest boy Bill, who had just come in, and 
climbed up Sir William's neck in order to kiss= 
him. .His mother was immediately going to chas- 
tise his familiarity, l>ut the worthy man prevented 
her ; and taking the child, all ragged as he was, 
upon his knee, " What, Bill, j'ou chubby rogue," 
cried he, " do you remember your old friend Burch- 
ell? and Dick too, my honest veteran, are you 
here ? you shall find 1 have not forgot you." So 
saying, he gave each a large [jiece of gingerbread, 
wiuch the poor fellows ate very heartily, as they 
had got that mornmg but a very scanty breakfast. 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



115 



We now sat down to dinner, which was ahnost 
cold, but previously, my arm still continuing pain- 
ful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he had 
made the study of physic his amusement, and was 
more than moderately skilled in the profession: 
this being sent to an apothecary who lived in the 
place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost in- 
stantaneous relief. We were waited upon at din- 
ner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to do 
our guest all the honour in his power. But before 
we had well dined, another message was brought 
from his nephew, desiring permission to appear in 
order to vindicate his mnocence and honour ; with 
which request the baronet complied, and desired 
Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

Former Benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest. 

Mr. Thornhill made his appearance with a 
smile, which he seldom wanted, and was going to 
embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with 
an air of disdain. "No fawning, sir, at present," 
cried the baronet, with a look of severity; " the only 
way to my heart is by the road of honour; but here 
1 only see complicated instances of falsehood, cow- 
ardice, and oppression. How is it, sir, that this 
poor man, for whom I know you professed a friend- 
ship, is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely 
seduced as a recompense for his hospitality, and he 
himself thrown into prison, perhaps but for resent- 
ing the insult 1 His son, too, whom you feared to 
face as a man " 

"Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew, 
" that my uncle could object that as a crime, which 
his repeated instructions alone have persuaded me 
to avoid?" 

"Your rebuke," cried Sir William, "is just; 
you have acted in thus instance prudently and well, 
though not quite as your father would have done : 
my brother, indeed, was the soul of honour; but 
thou Yes, you have acted in this instance per- 
fectly right, and it has my warmest approbation." 

"And I hope," said his nephew, " that the rest 
of my conduct will not be found to deserve censure. 
I appeared, sir, with this gentleman's daughter at 
some places of public amusement : thus, what was 
levity, scandal called by a harsher name, and it was 
reported that I had debauched her. I waited on 
her father in person, willing to clear the thing to 
his satisfaction, and he received me only with in- 
sult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his 
being here, my attorney and steward can best in- 
form you, as 1 commit the management of business 
entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and ' upon this affair; that he gave him the clothes he now 
is unwilling, or even unable, to pay them, it is their ' wears, to appear like a gentleman ; and furnished 
business to proceed in this manner; and I see no him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid lie- 



hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal 
means of redress." 

" If this," cried Sir WUliam, "be as you have 
stated it, there is nothing unpardonable in your of- 
fence ; and though your conduct might have been 
more generous in not suffering this gentleman to 
be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has 
been at least equitable." 

" He can not contradict a single particular," re- 
plied the 'Squire ; " I defy him to do so ; and several 
of my servants are ready to attest what I say. Thus, 
sir," continued he, finding that I was silent, for in 
fact I could not contradict him; " thus, sir, my own 
innocence is vindicated: but though, at your en- 
treaty, I am ready to forgive this gentleman every 
other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your 
esteem excite a resentment that I can not govern ; 
and this, too, at a time when his son was actually 
preparing to take away my hfe; — this, I say, was 
such guilt, that I am determined to let the law take 
its course. I have here the challenge that was sent 
me, and two witnesses to prove it : one of my ser- 
vants has been wounded dangerously; and even 
though my uncle himself should dissuade me, which 
I know he will not, yet I will see public justice 
done, and he shall suffer for it." 

" Thou monster," cried my wife, " hast thou not 
had vengeance enough already, but must my poor 
boy feel thy cruelty? I hope that good Sir William 
will protect us ; for my son is as innocent as a child : 
I am sure he is, and never did harm to man." 

"Madam," rephed the good man, "your wishes 
for his safety are not greater than mine; but I am 
sorry to find his guilt too plain; and if my nephew 
persists — " But the appearance of Jenkinson and 
the gaoler's two servants now called off our atten- 
tion, who entered, hauling in a tall man, very 
genteelly dressed, and answering the description 
already given of the ruffian who had carried off my 
daughter: — " Here," cried Jenkinson, pulling him 
in, "here we have him; and if ever there was a 
candidate for Tyburn, this is one." 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the pri 
soner, and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he 
seemed to shrink back with terror. His face be- 
came pale with conscious guilt, and he would have 
withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his de- 
sign, stopped him. — "What, 'Squire," cried he, 
are you ashamed of your tv^o old acquaintances, 
Jenkinson and Baxter? but this is the way that aU 
great men forget their friends, though I am resolved 
we will not forget you. Our prisoner, please your 
honour," continued he, turning to Sir William, 
"has already confessed all. This is the gentleman 
reported to be so dangerously wounded. He de^ 
clares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put him 



116 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



tween them, that he should carry off the young 
laily to ii place of safety; and that there he should 
threaten and terrify her; but Mr. Thornhill was to 
come in in the mean time, as if by accident, to her 
rescue; and that they should fight a while, andlhen 
he was to run off, — by which Mr. Thornhill would 
have the better opportunity of gainingher affections 
himself, under the character of her defender." 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been 
worn by his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner 
himself confirmed by amore circumstantial account, 
concluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often declared 
to him that he was in love with both sisters at the 
same time. 

" Heavens 1" cried Sir William, "what a viper 
have I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond 
of public justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he 
sliall have it ; secure him, Mr. Gaoler : — yet, hold, 
I fear there is no legal evidence to detain him." 

Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost hu- 
mility, entreated that two such abandoned wretches 
might not be admitted as evidences against him, 
but that his servants should be examined. — " Your 
servants!" replied Sir William ; " wretch ! call them 
yours no longer; but come let us hear what these 
fellows have to say; let his butler be called." 

When the butler was introduced, he soon per- 
ceived by his former master's looks that all his 
power was now over. " Tell me," cried Sir Wil- 
liam sternly, " have you ever seen your master and 
that fellow dressed up in his clothes in company 
together." — " Yes, please your honour," cried the 
butler; "a thousand times: he was the man that 
always brought him his ladies." — " How," inter- 
rupted young Mr. Thornhill, "this to my face!" — 
" Yes," replied the butler, " or to any man's face. 
To tell you a truth. Master Thornhill, I never 
cither loved or liked yon, and I don't care if 1 tell 
you now a piece of my mind." — "Now, then," 
cried Jenkinson, " tell his honour whether you 
know any thing of me." — " 1 can't say," replied 
the butler, "that 1 know much good of you. The 
niiflit that gentleman's daughter was deluded to 
our house, you were one of them." — " So, then," 
cried Sir William, " I find you have brought a very 
fine witness to prove your innocence: thou stain to 
humanity! to associate with such wretches! But," 
continuing his examination, "you tell mo, Mr. 
Butler, that this wns the person who brouglu him 
this old gentleman's daughter." — " No, please your 
honour," replied the butler, he did not bring her, 
for the 'Squire himself undertook that business; 
but he brought the priest that pretended to marry 
them." — " It is but too true," cried Jenkinson, " 1 
can not deny it ; that was the employment assigned 
me, and I confess it to my confusion." 

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the baronet, "how 
every new discovery of his villany alarms me. All 
liis guilt is now too plain, and 1 find his prosecu- 



tion was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and re- 
venge. At my request Mr. Gaoler, set this young 
officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for 
the consequences. I'll make it my business to set 
the affair in a proper light to my friend the magis- 
trate who has committed him. — But where is the 
unfortunate young lady herself 7 Let her appear 
to confront this wretch: I long to know by what 
arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in. 
Where is she?" 

" Ah, sir," said I, " that question stings me to 
the heart ; 1 was once indeed happy in a daughter, 

but her miseries " Another interruption here 

prevented me; for who should make her appearance 
but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to 
have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing 
could equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and 
his nephew here before her ; for her arrival was 
quite accidental. It happened that she and the old 
gentleman her father were passing through the 
town on their v\'ay to her aunt's, who insisted that 
her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be con- 
summated at her house; but stopping for reiVesh- 
ment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the 
town. It was there, from the window, that the 
young lady happened to observe one of my little 
boys playing in the street, and instantly sending a 
footman to bring the child to her, she learned from 
him some account of our misfortunes; but was still 
kept ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the 
cause. Though her father made several remon- 
strances on the impropriety of going to a [)rison to 
visit us, yet they were ineffectual; she desired the 
child to conduct her, which he did, and it was thus 
she surprised us at a juncture so unexpected. 

Nor can I go on without a reflect ion on those 
accidental meetings, which, though they happen 
every day, seldom excite <iur ;^;!t'| lise l.ut upon 
some extraordinary occiision. 'i o ulint a fortuitous 
concurrence do we not ovi'c every pleasure and con- 
venience of our lives! How many seen ing acci- 
dents must unite liofore we can be clothed or fed I 
The peasant must be (iispose<l to labour, the show- 
er must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or 
numbers must want tlie usual su|)ply. 

We all continued silent forsomr moments, while 
my charming pupil, which was the name I gener- 
ally gave this young lady, united in her looks com- 
passion and astonishment, vi-hich gave new finish- 
ing to her beauty. " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thorn- 
hill," cried she to the 'Squire, who she supposed 
was come here to succour, and not to oppress us, 
"I take it a little unkindly that you should come 
here without me, or never inform me of the situa- 
tion of a family so dear to us both; you know I 
should take as much ])leasurein contributing to the 
relief of my reverend old master here, whom I shall 
ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your 
uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.' 



THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



117 



"He find pleasure in doing good!" cried Sir 
William, interrupting her. "No, my dear, his 
pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, 
madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced hu- 
manity. A wretch, who, after having deluded this 
poor man's daughter, after plotting against the in- 
nocence of her sister, has thrown the father into 
prison, and the eldest son into fetters, because he 
had the courage to face her betrayer. And give 
me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon 
an escape from the embraces of such a monster." 

" O goodness," cried the love!)' girl, "how have 
I been deceived! Mr. Thornhill informed me for 
certain that this gentleman's eldest son, Captain 
Primrose, was gone off to America with his new- 
married lady." 

"My sweetest miss," cried my wife, "he has 
told you nothing but falsehoods. My son George 
never left the kingdom, nor ever was married 
Though you have forsaken him, he has always 
loved you too well to think of any body else ; and 
I have heard him say, he would die a bachelor for 
your sake." She then proceeded to expatiate upon 
the sincerity of her son's passion. She set his duel 
with Mr. Thornliill in a proper light; from thence 
she made a rapid digression to the 'Squire's de- 
baijcheries, his pretended marriages, and ended 
with a most insulting picture of his cowardice. 

" Good Heaven!" cried Miss Wilmot, "how \cTy 
near have I been to the brink of ruin! Ten thou- 
sand falsehoods has this gentleman told me : he had 
at last art enough to persuade me, that my promise 
to the only man I esteemed was no longer binding, 
since he had been unftiithful. By his falsehoods 
I was taught to detest one equally brave and gene- 
rous." 

But by this time my son was freed from the in- 
cumbrances of justice, as the person supposed to 
be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. 
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet de cham- 
bre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished him 



replied she; "I have been deceived, basely deceiv- 
ed, else nothing could have ever made me unjust to 
my promise. You know my friendship, you have 
long known it; but forget what 1 have done, and 
as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, 
you shall now have them repeated ; and be assured, 
that if your Arabella can not be yours, she shall 
never be another's." — "And no other's you shall 
be," cried Sir William, "if I have any influence 
with your father." 

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who 
immediately flew to the mn where the old gentle- 
man was, to inform him of every circumstance that 
had happened. But in the mean time the 'Squire, 
perceiving that he was on every side undone, now 
finding that no hopes were left from flattery and 
dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would 
be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus, laying 
aside all shame, he appeared the open hardy vil- 
lain. " I find, then," cried he, "that I am to ex- 
pect no justice here; but I am resolved it shall be 
done me. You shall know, sir," turning to Sir 
William, " I am no longer a poor dependant upon 
your favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep 
Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank 
her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles 
and a bond for her fortune are signed, and safe in 
my possession. It was her fortune, not her persoi;, 
that induced me to wish for this match ; and pos- 
sessed of the one, let who will take the other." 

This was an alarming blow. Sir William was 
sensible of the justice of his claims, for he had been 
instrumental in drawing up the marriage articles 
himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that 
her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my 
son, she asked if the loss of her fortune could les- 
sen her value to him? " Though fortune," said 
she, "is out of my power, at least I have my heart 
to give." 

"And that, madam," cried her real lover, "was 
indeed all that you ever had to give ; at least all that 



with whatever was necessary to malce a genteel I ever thought worth the acceptance. And I now 
appearance. He now therefore entered, handsome- protest, ray Arabella, by all that's happj', your want 
ly dressed in his regimentals; and without vanity | of fortune this moment increases my pleasure, as 
(for I am above it.) he appeared as handsome a fel- ' it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity." 
low as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a Ut- 
ile made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, j tie pleased at the danger his daughter had just es- 
for he was not as yet acquainted with the change jcaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of the 
which the eloquence of his mother had wrought in 'match. But finding that her fortune, which was 
his favour. But no decorums could restrain the 'secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be 
impatience of his blushing mistress to be 'forgiven, j given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. 
Her tears, her looks, all contributed to discover the j He now saw that his money must all go to enrich 
real sensations of her heart, for having forgotten one who had no fortune of his own. He could 
her former promise, and having suffered herself to ' bear his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent 
ba deluded by an impostor. My son appeared! to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sat 
amazed at her condescension, and could scarcely therefore for some minutes employed in the most • 
believe it real. — " Sure, madam," cried he, "this is mortifying specidations, till Sir William attempted 
but delusion! I can never have merited this! To to lessen his anxiety. — " I must confess, sir," cried 
be blessed thus is to be too happy."— "No, sir,". he, "tliat your present disappointment does not 



118 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



entirely displease me. Your immoderate passion 
for wealth is now justly punished. But though the 
young lady can not be rich, she has still a compe- 
tence sufficient to give content. Here you see an 
honest young soldier, who is willing to take her 
without fortune: they have long loved each other; 
and for the friendship I bear his father, my interest 
shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave then 
that ambition which disappoints you, and for once 
adnjit that happiness which courts your acceptance." 
"Sir "William," rephed the old gentleman, "be 
assured I never yet forced her inclinations, nor will 
I now. If she still continues to love this young 
gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. 
There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, 
and your promise will make it something more. 
Only let my old friend here (meaning me) give me 
a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my 
girl if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am 
ready tins night to be the first to join them toge- 
ther." 

As it now remained with me to raalie the j'^oung 
couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making 
the settlement he required, which from one who 
had such little expectations as I, was no great fa- 
vour. — We had now, therefore, the satisfaction of 
seeing them fly into each other's arms in a trans- 
port. — "After all my misfortunes," cried my son 
George, " to be thus rewarded ! Sure this is more 
than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To 
be possessed of all that's good, and after such an 
interval of pain! My warmest wishes could never 
rise so high!" 

"Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, 
" now let the wretch take my fortune ; since you 
are happy without it, so am I. O what an exchange 
have I made from the basest of men to the dearest, 
best! — Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be 
happy even in indigence." — " And 1 promise you," 
cried the 'Squire, with a malicious grin, "that I 
shall be very happy with what you despise." — 
"Hold, hold, sir," cried Jenkinson, "there are two 
words to that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, 
sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it. Pray, 
your honour," continued he to Sir William, " can 
the 'Squire have this lady's fortune if he be marri- 
ed to anotherl" — "How can you make such a 
simple demand]" replied the baronet: "undoubt- 
edly he can not." — "I am sorry for that," cried 
Jenkinson; "for as this gentleman and I have been 
old fellow-sporters, I have a friendship for him. 
But I must declare, well as I love him, that his 
contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is 
married already." — " You lie, like a rascal," return- 
ed the 'Squire, who seemed roused by this insult; 
" I never was legally married to any woman." 

" Indeed, begging your honour's pardon," repli- 
ed the other, " you were ; and I hope you will show 
a proper retvim of friendship to your own honest 



Jenkinson, who brings you a wife; and if the com- 
pany restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they 
shall see her." So saying he went off with his 
usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any 
probable conjecture as to his design. "Ay,, let 
him go," cried the 'Squire; "whatever else I may 
have done, I defy him there. I am too old now to 
be frightened with squibs." 

" I am surprised," said the baronet, " what the 
fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of hu- 
mour, I suppose." — "Perhaps, sir," replied I, "he 
may have a more serious meaning. For when we 
reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has 
laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more 
artful than the rest, has been found able to deceive 
him. When we consider what numbers he has 
ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish 
the infamy and the contamination which he has. 
brought into their families, it would not surprise 
me if some one of them — Amazement! Do I see 
my lost daughter? do I hold her? It is, it is my life, 
my happiness. I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet 
still I hold thee — and still thou shalt live to bless 
me." The warmest transports of the fondest lover 
were not greater than mine, when I saw him in- 
troduce my clukl, and held my daughter in my 
arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures.. 
"And art thou returned to mc, my darling," 

cried I, " to be my comfort in age!" " That she 

is," cried Jenkinson, "and make much of her, foF 
she is your own honourable child, and as honest a 
woman as any in the whole room, let the other be 
who she will. And as for you, 'Squire, as sure as 
you stand there, this young lady is your lawful 
wedded wife. And to convince you that I speak 
nothing but truth, here is the license by which you 
were married together." — So saying, he put tho 
license into the baronet's hands, who read it, and 
found it perfect in every respect. " And now, 
gentlemen," continued he, " I find you are sur- 
prised at all this; but a few words will explain the 
difficulty. That there ' Squire of renown, for whom 
I have a great friendship (but that's between our- 
selves), has often employed me in doing odd little 
things for him. Among the rest he commissioned 
me to procure him a false license and a false priest, 
in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was 
very much his friend, what did I do, but went and 
got a true license and a true priest, and married 
them both as fast as the cloth could malce them. 
Perhaps you'll tliink it was generosity that made 
me do all this : but no ; to my shame I confess it, 
my only design was to keep the license, and let the 
Squire know that I could prove it upon him when- 
ever I thought proper, and so make him come down 
whenever I wanted money." A burst of pleasure 
now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy 
reached even to the common room, where the pri- 
soners themselves sympathized, 



THlE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 



119 



And shook their chains 

In transport and rude harmony. 

Happiness was expanded upon every face, and 
even Olivia's cheek seemed flashed with pleasure, 
To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and 
fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the 
progress of decay, and restore former health and 
■vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not 
one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still hold- 
ing the dear loved child in my arms, I asked my 
heart if these transports were not delusion. " How 
€Ould you," cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkinson, 
" how could you add to my miseries by the story 
of her death'? But it matters not; my pleasure at 
finding her again is more than a recompense for 
the pain." 

" As to your question," replied .fenkinson, "that 
is easily answered. I thought the only probable 
means of freeing you from prison, was by submit- 
ting to the 'Squire, and consenting to his marriage 
with the other young lady. But these you had 
vowed never to grant while your daughter was liv- 
ing j there was therefore no other method to bring 
things to bear, but by persuading you that she was 
dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in tlie de- 
ceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of un- 
deceiving you till now." 

In the whole assembly there now appeared only 
two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr. 
Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him : 
lie now saw the gulf of infamy and want before 
liim, and trembled to take the plunge. He there- 
fore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a 
voice of piercing misery implored compassion. Sir 
William was going to spurn him away, but at my 
request he raised him, and, after pausing a few mo- 
ments, " Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried 
he, " deserve no tenderness ; yet thou shalt not be 
entirely forsaken — a bare competence shall be sup- 
plied to support the wants of life, biit not its follies. 
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in posses- 
sion of a third part of that fortune which once was 
thine, and from her tenderness alone thou art to 
expect any extraordinary supplies for the future." 
He wa^ going to express his gratitude for such 
kindness in a set speech; but the baronet prevented 
Jiira, by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, 
which was already but too apparent. He ordered 
him at the same time to be gone, and from all his 
former domestics to choose one, such as he should 
tliink proper, which was all that should be granted 
to attend him. 

As soon as he left us. Sir William very politely 
stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and 
wished her joy. His example was followed by 
Miss Wilmot and her father. My wife too kissed 
her daughter with much affection; as, to use her 
own expression, she was now made an honest wo- 
man of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and 



even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be ad- 
mitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed 
scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, whose 
greatest pleasure was in doing good, now looked 
round with a countenance open as the sun, and saw 
nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of 
my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we 
could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satis- 
fied. " I think, now," cried he, with a smile, " that 
all the company except one or two seem perfectly 
happy. There only remains an act of justice for 
me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued he, 
turning to me, "of the obligations we both owe 
Mr. Jenkinson, and it is but just we should both 
reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, 
make him very happy, and he shall have from me 
five hundred pounds as her fortune; and upon this 
1 am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match 

of my making? Will you have him7" My poor 

girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's arms, 
at the hideous proposal. — " Have him, sir!" cried 
she faintly: " No, sir, never." — " What!" cried he 
again, " not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, 
handsome young fellow, with five hundred 
pounds, and good expectations'?" — " I beg, sir," 
returned she, scarcely able to speak, " that you'll 

desist, and not make me so very wretched." 

"Was ever such obstinacy known?" cried he again, 
" to refuse a man whom the family has such in- 
finite obligations to, who has preserved your sister, 
and who has five hundred pounds! What, not have 

him7" "No, sir, never," replied she angrily; 

I'd sooner die first." — " If that be the case, then," 
cried he, "if you will not have him — I think I 
must have you myself" And so saying, he caught 
her to his breast with ardour. " My loveliest, my 
most sensible of girls," cried he, "how could you 
ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or 
that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to ad- 
mire a mistress that loved him for himself alone"? I 
have for some years sought for a woman, who, a 
stranger to my fortune, could think that I had 
merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even 
amongst the pert and the ugly, how great at last 
must be my rapture to have made a conquest over . 
such sense and such heavenly beauty !" Then 
turning to Jenkinson: "As I can not, sir, part 
with this young lady myself, for she has talcen a 
fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense I 
can make is to give you her fortune ; and you may 
call upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred 
pounds." Thus, we had all our compliments to 
repeat, and Lady Thoriihill underwent the same 
round of ceremony that her sister had done before. 
In the meantime. Sir WiUiam's gentleman appear- 
ed to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry 
us to the inn, where every thing was prepared for 
our reception. My wife and I led the van, and 



120 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The gener- 
ous baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed 
among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by 
his example, gave half that sum. We were re- 
ceived below by the shouts of the villagers, and I 
saw and shook by the hand two or three of my 
honest parishioners, who were among the number. 
They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous 
entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions 
were distributed in great quantities among the 
populace. 

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by 
the alternation of pleasure and pain which they had 
sustained during the day, I asked permission to 
withdraw ; and leaving the company in the midst 
of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I 
poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy 
as well as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till 
morninff. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Conclusion. 

The next morning as soon as I awaked, I found 
my eldest son sitting by my bed-side, who came to 
increase my joy with another turn of fortune in my 
favour. First having released nie from the settle- 
ment that I had made the day before in his favour, 
he let me know that my merchant who had failed 
in town was arrested at Antwerp, and there had 
given up effects to a much greater amount than 
what was due to his creditors. My boy's generosi- 
ty pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for 
good fortune; but I had some doubts whether I 
ought in justice to accept his offer. While I was 
pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, 
to whom I communicated my doubts. His opinion 
was, that as my son was already possessed of a very 
affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his 
ofler without any hesitation. His business, how- 
ever, was to inform me, that as he had the night 
before sent for the licenses, and expected them 
every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my 
assistance in making all the company happy that 
morning. A footman entered while we were speak- 
ing, to tell us that the messenger was returned; and 
as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I 
found the whole company as merry as affluence 
and innocence could make them. Hovi'ever, as 
they were now preparing for a very solemn cere- 
mony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told 
them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deport- 
ment they should assume upon this mystical occa- 
sion, and read theni two homilies, and a thesis of 
my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet 
they still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovern- 
able. Even as wo were going abng to church, to 



which I led the way, all gravity had quite forsaken 
them, and I was often tempted to turn back in in- 
dignation. In church a new dilemma arose, which 
promised no easy solution. This was, which couple 
should be married first. My son's bride warmly 
insisted that Lady Thornhill (that was to be) 
should take the lead: but this the other refused 
with equal ardour, protesting she would not be 
guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argu- 
ment was supported for some time between both 
with equal obstinacy and good-breeding. But as 
I stood all this time with my book ready, I was at 
last quite tired of the contest ; and shutting it, "I 
perceive," cried I, " that none of you have a mind 
to be married, and I think we had as good go back 
again; for I suppose there will be no business done 
here to-day." — This at once reduced them to rea- 
son. The baronet and his lady were first married, 
and then my son and his lovely partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that 
a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour 
Flamborough and his family; by which means, 
upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of 
finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted be- 
fore us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eld- 
est and my son Moses led up the other (and I 
have since found that he has taken a real liking to 
the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall have, 
whenever he thinks proper to demand them.) We 
were no sooner returned to the inn, but numbers 
of my parishioners, hearing of my success, came to 
congratulate me : but among the rest were those 
who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly re- 
buked with such sharpness. I told the story to 
Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and re- 
proved them with great severity; but finding them 
quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave 
them half a guinea a-piece to drink his health, and 
raise their dejected spirits. 

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel 
entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thorn- 
hill's cook. And it may not be improper to observe, 
with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides, 
in quality of companion, at a relation's house, be- 
ing very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side- 
table, except when there is no room at the other; 
for they make no stranger of him. His time is 
pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who 
is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to 
blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, how- 
ever, still remembers him with regret ; and she has 
even told me, though I make a secret of it, that 
when he reforms she may be brought to relent. — 
But to return, fori am not apt to digress thus; 
when we were to sit down to dinner our ceremo- 
nies were going to be renewed. The question was, 
whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, 
shoukl not sit above the two young brides; but the 
debate was cut short by my son George, who pro- 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



121 



posed that the company should sit indiscriminately, 
every gentleman by his lady. This was received 
with great approbation by all, excepting my wife, 
who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, 
as she expected to have had the pleasure of sitting 
at the head of the table, and carving the meat for 
all the company. But, notwithstanding this, it is 
impossible to describe our good-humour. I can't 
say whether we had more wit among us now than 
usual; but I am certain we had more laughing, 
which answered the end as well. One jest I par- 
ticularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot drinking to 
Moses, whose head was turned another way, my 
son replied, "Madam, I thank you." Upon which 



the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the 
company, observed, that he was thinking of his 
mistress: at which jest I thought the two Miss 
Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. As 
soon as dinner was over, according to my old cus- 
tom, I requested that the table might be taken away, 
to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assem- 
bled once more by a cheerful fire-side. My two 
little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the com- 
pany by their partners. I had nothing now on this 
side of the grave to wish for; all my cares were 
over; my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only 
remained, that my gratitude in good fortune should 
exceed my former submission in adversity. 



AN IXaUIRY 



m\t ^vtumt ^UU of polite Hearwins** 



tsfOTi yivcno. 
Tolcrabilc siJEdificia nostra diruerent jEdificandi capaces. 



CHAPTER I. 



imroJuction. 



It has been so long the practice to represent ht- 
erature as t'eclining, that every renewal of this 
complaint now comes with diminished influence. 
The public has been so often excited by a false 
alarm, that at present the nearer we approach the 
threatened period of decay, the more our security 
uicrcases. 

It will now probably be said, that, taking the 
decay of genius for granted, as I do, argues either 
resentment or partiality. The writer possessed of 
fame, it may be asserted, is willing to enjoy it with- 
out a rival, by lessening every competitor; or, if 
unsuccessful, he is desirous to turn upon others the 
contempt which is levelled at himself; and being 
convicted at the bar of literary justice, hopes for 
pardon by accusing every brother of the same pro- 
fession. 

Sensible of this, I am at a loss where to find an 
apology for persisting to arraign the merit of the 
age ; for joining in a cry vvhich the judicious have 
long since left to be kept up by the vulgar ; and for 
adopting the sentiments of the multitude, in a per- 
formance that at best can please only a few. 

Complaints of our degeneracy in literature, as 
well as in morals, I own, have been frequently ex- 
hibited of late, but seem to be enforced more with 
the ardour of devious declamation than the calm- 
ness of deliberate inquiry. The dullest critic, who 
strives at a reputation for delicacy, by showing he 
can not be pleased, may pathetically assure us, that 
our taste is upon the decline ; may consign every 
modern performance to oblivion, and bequeath no- 
thing to posterity, except the labours of our ances- 
tors, or his own. Such general invective, however. 



"The first edition of this work ayjiearod in 1759, and tlie 
second was printed in 1774. 



conveys no instruction ; all it teaches is, that the 
writer dislikes an age by which he is probably dis- 
regarded. The manner of being useful on the 
subject, would be, to point out the symptoms, to in- 
vestigate the causes, and direct to the remedies of 
the approaching decay. This is a subject hitherto 
unattempted in criticism, — perhaps it is the only 
subject in which criticism can be useful. 

How far the writer is equal to such an under- 
taking the reader must determine ; yet perhaps his 
observations may be just, though his manner of 
expressing them should only serve as an example 
of the errors he undertalies to reprove. 

Novelty, however, is not permitted to usurp the 
place of reason ; it may attend, but it shall not con- 
duct the inquiry. But it should be observed, that 
the more original any performance is, the more it 
is liable to deviate ; for cautious stupidity is always 
in the right. 



CHAPTER II. 

The Causes which contribute to the Decline of Learning. 

If we consider the revolutions which have hap- 
pensed in the commonwealth of letters, survey the 
rapid progress of learning in one period of antiqui- 
ty, or its amazing decline in another, we shall be 
almost induced to accuse nature of partiality ; as- 
if she had exhausted all her efforts in adorning one" 
age, while she left the succeeding entirely neglect 
ed. It is not to nature, however, but to ourselves 
alone, thatthis partiality must be ascribed : the seeds, 
of excellence are sown in every age, and it is wholly 
owing to a wrong direction in the passions or pur- 
suits of mankind, that they have not received the 
proper cultivation. 

As, in the best regulated societies, the very laws 
which at first give the government solidity, may in 



THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 



123 



the end contribute to its dissolution, so the efforts 
which might have promoted learning in its feeble 
commencement, majj^, if continued, retard its pro- 
gress. The paths of science, which were at first 
intricate because untrodden, may at last grow toil- 
some, because too much frequented. As learning 
advances, the candidates for its honours become 
more numerous, and the acquisition of fame more 
uncertain : the modest may despair of attaining it, 
and the opulent think it too precarious to pursue. 
Thus the task of supporting the honour of the 
times may at last devolve on indigence eind effron- 
tery, while learning must partake of the contempt 
of its professors. 

To illustrate these assertions, it may be proper 
to take a slight review of the decline of ancient 
learning; to consider how far its depravation was 
owing to the impossibility of supporting continued 
perfection; in what respects it proceeded from vol- 
untary corruption; and how far it was hastened on 
by accident. If modern learning be compared with 
ancientj in these different hghts, a parallel between 
both, which has hitherto produced only vain dis- 
pute, may contribute to amusement, perhaps to in- 
struction. We shall thus be enabled to perceive 
what period of antiquity the present age most re- 
sembles, whether we are making advances towards 
excellence, or retiring again to primeval obscurity ; 
we shall thus be taught to acquiesce in those de- 
fects which it is impossible to prevent, and reject 
all faulty innovations, though offered under the 
specious titles of improvement. 

Learning, when planted in any country, is tran- 
sient and fading, nor does it flourish till slow gra- 
dations of improvement have naturalized it to the 
soil. It makes feeble advances, begins among the 
:vulgar, and rises into reputation among the great. 
It can not be established in a state at once, by intro- 
ducing the learned of other countries ; these may 
grace a court, but seldom enUghten a kingdom. 
Ptolemy Philadelphus, Constantine Porphyroge- 
neta, Alfred, or Charlemagne, might have invited 
learned foreigners into their dominions, but could 
not establish learning. While in the radiance of 
royal favour, every art and science seemed to flour- 
ish; but when that was withdrawn, they quicldy 
felt the rigours of a strange climate, and with exo- 
tic constitutions perished by neglect. 

As the arts and sciences are slow in coming to 
maturity, it is requisite, in order to their perfection, 
that the state should be permanent which gives 
them reception. There are numberless attempts 
without success, and experiments without conclu- 
sion, between the first rudiments of an art, and its 
utmost perfection; between the outlines of a sha- 
dow, and the picture of an Apelles. Leisure is re- 
quired to go through the tedious interval, to join 
Ihe experience of predecessors to our own, or en- 
large our views, by building on the ruined attempts 



of former adventurers. All this may be performed 
in a society of long continuance, but if the kingdom 
be but of short duration, as was the case of Arabia, 
learning seems coeval, sympathizes with its politi- 
cal struggles, and is annihilated in its dissolution. 

But permanence in a state is not alone sufficient; 
it is requisite also for this end that it should be free. 
NaturaUsts assure us, that all animals are sagaci- 
ous in proportion as they are removed from the 
tyranny of others. In native liberty, the elephant 
is a citizen, and the beaver an architect; but when- 
ever the tyrant man intrades upon their communi- 
ty, their spirit is broken, they seem anxious only 
for safety, and their intellects suffer an equal dimi- 
nution with their prosperity. The parallel' will hold 
with regard to mankind. Fear naturally represses 
invention ; benevolence, ambition : for in a nation 
of slaves, as in the despotic governments of the 
East, to labour after fame is to be a candidate for 
danger. 

To attain literary excellence also, it is requisite 
that the soil and climate should, as much as possi- 
ble, conduce to happiness. The earth must sup- 
ply man with the necessaries of hfe, before he has 
leisure or inclination to pursue more refined enjoy- 
ments. The climate also must be equally indulgent; 
for in too warm a region the mind is relaxed into 
languor, and by the opposite excess is chilled into 
torpid inactivity. 

These are the principal advantages which tend 
to the improvement of learning; and all these were 
united in the states of Greece and Rome. 

We must now examine what hastens, or pre- 
vents its decline. 

Those who behold the phenomena of nature, 
and content themselves with the view without in- 
quiring into their causes, are perhaps wiser than is 
generally imagined. In this manner our rude an- 
cestors were acquainted with facts; and poetry, 
which helped the imagination and the memory, was 
thought the most proper vehicle for conveying their 
knowledge to posterity. It was the poet who har- 
monized the ungrateful accents of his native dia- 
lect, who lifted it above common conversation, and 
shaped its rude combinations into order. From 
him the orator formed a style : and though poetry 
first rose oxit of prose, in turn it gave birth to every 
prosaic excellence. Musical period, concise ex- 
pression, and delicacy of sentiment, were all excel- 
lencies derived from the poet; in short, he not only 
preceded but formed the orator, philosopher, and 
historian. 

When the observations of past ages were col- 
lected, philosophy next began to examine their 
causes. She had numberless facts from which to 
draw proper inferences, and poetry had taught her 
the strongest expression to enforce them. Thus 
the Greek philosophers, for instance, exerted all 
their happy talents ia the investigation of truth, 



IM 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



and the production of beauty. They saw, that 
there was more excellence in captivating the judg- 
ment, than in raising a momentary astonishment. 
In their arts they imitated only such parts of nature 
as might please in the representation ; in the sci- 
ences, they cultivated such parts of knowledge as it 
was every man's duty to know. Thus learning 
was encouraged, protected, and honoured; and in 
its turn it adorned, strengthened, and harmonized 
the community. 

But as the mind is \igorous and active, and ex- 
periment is dilatory and painful, the spirit of phi- 
losophy being excited, the reasoner, when destitute 
of experiment, had recourse to theory, and gave up 
what was useful for refinement. 

Critics, sophistSj grammarians, rhetoricians, and 
commentators, now began to figure in the literary 
commonwealth. In the dawn of science such are 
generally modest, and not entirely useless. Their 
performances serve to mark the progress of learn- 
ing, though they seldom contribute to its improve- 
ment. But as nothing but speculation was required 
in making proficients in their respective depart- 
ments, so neither the satire nor the contempt of the 
wise, though Socrates was of the number, nor the 
laws levelled at them by the state, though Cato 
•was in the legislature, could prevent their ap- 
proaches.* Possessed of all the advantages of un- 
feeling dulness, laborious, insensible, and persever- 
ing, they still proceed mending and mending every 
work of genius, or, to speak without irony, under- 
mining all that was polite and useful. Libraries 
were loaded, but not enriched with their labours, 
while the fatigue of reading their explanatory com- 
ments was tenfold that which might suffice for un- 
derstanding the original, and their works effectual- 
ly increased our application, by professing to re- 
move it. 

Against so obstinate and irrefragable an enemy, 
■what could avail the unsupported sallies of genius, 
or the opposition of transitory resentment 1 In 
short, they conquered by persevering, claimed the 
right of dictating upon every work of taste, senti- 
ment, or genius, and at last, when destitute of em- 
ployment, like the supernumerary domestics of the 
great, made work for each other. 

They now took upon them to teach poetry to 
• those who wanted genius : and the power of dis- 
puting, to those who knew nothing of the subject 
in debate. It was observed how some of the most 
admired poets had copied nature. From these they 
collected dry rules, dignified with long names, and 
such were obtruded upon the public for their im- 
provement. Common sense would be apt to sug- 
gest, that the art might be studied more to advan- 
tage, rather by imitation than precept. It might 
suggest, that those rules were collected, not frorh 
nature, but a copy of nature, and would consequent- 



' Vide Suetoii. Hist Gram. 



ly give us still fainter resemblances of original beau- 
ty. It might still suggest, that explained wit makes 
but a feeble impression; that the observations of 
others are soon forgotten, those made by ourselves 
are permanent and useful. But it seems, under- 
standings of every size were to be mechanically in- 
structed in poetry. If the reader was too dull to 
relish the beauties of Virgil, the comment of Ser- 
vius was ready to brighten his imagination ; if Te- 
rence could not raise him to a smile, Evantius was 
at hand, with a long-winded scholium to increase 
his titilation. Such rules are calculated to make 
blockheads talk, but all the lemmata of the LyceUm 
are unable to give him feeling. 

But it would be endless to recount all the ab- 
surdities which were hatched in the schools of 
those specious idlers ; be it sufficient to say, that 
they increased as learning improved, but swarmed 
on its decline. It was then that everj- work of 
taste was buried in long comments, every useful 
subject in morals was distinguished away into casu- 
istry, and doubt and subtlety characterized the learn- 
ing of the age. Metrodorus, Valerius Probus, 
Aulus Gellius, Pedianus, Boethius, and a hundred 
others, to be acquainted with whom might show 
much reading, and but little judgment ; these, I 
say, made choice each of an author, and delivered 
all their load of learning on his back. Shame to 
our ancestors ! many of their works have reached 
our times entire, while Tacitus himself has suffer- 
ed mutilation. 

In a word, the commonwealth of literature was 
at last wholly overrun by these studious triflers. 
Men of real genius were lost in the multitude, or, 
as in a world of fools it were folly to aim at being 
an only exception, obliged to conform to every pre- 
vailing absurdity of the times. Original produc- 
tions seldom appeared, and learning, as if grown 
superannuated, bestowed all its panegyric upon 
the vigour of its youth, and turned enconjiast upon 
its former achievements. 

It is to these, then, that the depravation of an- 
cient polite learning is principally to be ascribed. 
By them it was separated from common sense, and 
made the proper employment of speculative idlers. 
Men bred up among books, and seeing nature only 
by reflection, could do little, except hunt after per- 
plexity and confusion. The public, therefore, with 
reason, rejected learning, when thus rendered bar- 
ren, though voluminous; for we may be assured, 
that the generality of mankind never lose a passion 
for letters, while they continue to be either amus- 
ing or useful. 

It was such writers as these, that rendered learn- 
ing unfit for uniting and strengthening civil socie- 
ty, or for promoting the views of ambition. True 
philosophy had kept the Grecian states cemented 
into one effective body, more than any law for that 
purpose; and the Etrurian philosophy, which pre- 



THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 



125 



vailed in the first ages of Rome, inspired those pa 
triot virtues which paved the way to universal em 
pire. But by the labours of commentators, when 
philosophy became abstruse, or triflingly minute, 
when doubt was presented instead of knowledge, 
when the orator was taught to oharm the multitude 
with the music of his periods, and pronounced a 
declamation that might be sung as well as spoken, 
and often upon subjects wholly fictitious ; in such 
circumstances, learning was entirely unsuited to all 
the purposes of government, or the designs of the 
ambitious. As long as the sciences could influence 
the state, and its politics were strengthened by them, 
so long did the community give them countenance 
and protection. But the wiser part of mankind 
would not be imposed upon by unintelligible jar- 
gon, nor, like the knight in Pantagruel, swallow a 
chimera for a breakfast, though even cooked by 
Aristotle. As the philosopher grew useless in the 
state, he also became contemptible. In the times 
of Lucian, he was chiefly remarkable for his ava- 
rice, his impudence, and his beard. 

Under the auspicious influence of genius, arts 
and sciences grew up together, and mutually illus- 
trated each other. But when once pedants became 
lawgivers, the sciences began to want grace, and 
the polite arts solidity ; these grew crabbed and 
sour, those meretricious and gaudy; the philosopher 
became disgustingly precise, and the poet, ever 
straining after grace, caught only finery. 

These men also contributed to obstruct the pro- 
gress of wisdom, by addicting tlieir I'eaders to one 
particular sect, or some favourite science. They 
generally carried on a petty traflHc in some little 
creek: within that they busily plied about, and 
drove an insignificant trade ; but never ventured 
out into the great ocean of knowledge, nor went 
beyond the bounds that chance, conceit, or laziness, 
had first jirescribed tlieir inquiries. Their disci- 
ples, instead of aiming at being originals them- 
selves, bec-anie imitators of that merit alone which 
was constantly proposed for their admiration. In 
exercises of this kind, the most stupid are generally 
most successful ; for there is not in nature a more 
imitative animal than a dunce. 

Hence ancient learning may be distinguished 
into three periods. Its commencement, or the age 
of jioets ; its maturity, or the age of philosophers ; 
and its dechnc, or the age of critics. In the poeti- 
cal age commentators were very few, but iniorht 
have in some respects been useful. In its philoso- 
phiL-.al, their assistance must necessarily become 
obnoxious ; yet, as if the nearer we approached 
perfection the more we stood in need of their direc- 
tions, in this period they began to grow numerous. 
But wiien polite learning was no more, then it 
was those literary lawgivers made the most formi- 
da])le iipncarance. Corruptissiina repubiica, plu~ 
riincs liges. Tacit. 



But let us take a more distinct view of those 
ages of ignorance in which false refinement had in- 
volved mankind, and see how far they resemble our 
own. 



CHAPTER III. 

A View of the Obscure Ages. 



Whatever the skill of any country may be in 
the science.^, it is from its excellence in polite learn- 
ing alone, that it must expect a character from pos- 
terity. The poet and the historian are they who 
diffuse a lustre upon the age, and the philosopher 
scarcely acquires any applause, unless his charac- 
ter be introduced to the vulgar by their mediation. 

The obscure ages, which succeeded the decline 
of the Roman empire, are a striking instance of 
the truth of this assertion. Whatever period of 
those ill-fated times we happen to turn to, \i& shall 
perceive more skill in the sciences among the pro- 
fessors of them, more abstruse and deeper inquiry 
into every philosophical subject, and a greater 
show of subtlety and close reasoning, than in the 
most enlightened ages of all antiquity. But their 
writings were mere speculative amusements, and 
all their researches exhausteJ upon trifles. Un- 
skilled in the arts of adorning their knowledge, or 
adapting it to common sense, their voluminous 
productions rest peacefully in our libraries, or at 
best are inquired after from motives of curiosity, 
not by the scholar, but the virtuoso. 

I am not insensible, that several late French 
historians have exhibited the obscure ages in a 
very different light. They have represented them 
as utterly ignorant both of arts and sciences, buried 
in the profoundcst darkness, or only illuminated 
with a feeble gleam, which, like an expiring taper, 
rose and sunk by intervals. Such assertions, how- 
ever, though they serve to help out the declaimer, 
should be cautiously admitted by the historian. 
For instance, the tenth century, is particularly dis- 
tinguished by posterity, with the appellation of 
obscure. Yet, even in this, the reader's memory 
may possibly suggest the names of some, whose 
works, still preserved, discover a most extensive 
erudition, though rendered almost useless by affec- 
tation and obscurity. A few of their names and 
writings may be mentioned, which will serve at 
once to confirm what I assert, and give the reader 
an idea of what kind of learning an age dechning 
into obscurity chiefly chooses to cultivate. 

About the tenth century flourished Leo the phi- 
losopher. We have seven volumes folio of his col- 
lections of laws, published at Paris, 1647. He 
wrote upon the art mihtary, and understood also 
astronomy and judicial astrology. He was seven 
times more voluminous than Plato. 



126 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Solomon, the German, wrote a most elegant dic- 
tionary of the Latin tongue, still preserved in the 
university of Louvain ; Pantaleon, in the lives of 
his illustrious countrymen, speaks of it in the warm- 
est strains of rapture. Dictionary writing was at 
that time much in fashion. 

Constantine Porphyrogenta was a man univer- 
sally skilled in the sciences. His tracts on the ad- 
ministration of an empire, on tactics, and on laws, 
were published some years since at Leyden. His 
court, for he was emperor of the East, was resorted 
to by the learned from all parts of the world. 

Luitprandus was a most voluminous historian, 
and partictilarly famous for the history of his own 
times. The compliments paid him as a writer are 
said to exceed even his own voluminous produc- 
tions. I can not pass over one of a later date made 
him by a German divine. Luitprandus nunquani 
Ziuitprando dissimilis. 

Alfric composed several grammars and dictiona- 
ries still preserved among the curious. 

Pope Sylvester the Second wrote a treatise on 
the sphere, on arithmetic and geometry, published 
some years since at Paris. 

Michael Psellus lived in this age, whose books 
in the sciences, I will not scruple to assert, contain 
more learning than those of any one of the earlier 
ages. His erudition was indeed amazing; and he 
was as voluminous as he was learned. The cha- 
racter given him by Allatius has, perhaps, more 
truth in it than will be granted by those who have 
seen none of his productions. There was, says he, 
no science with which he was unacquainted, none 
which he did not write something upon, and none 
which he did not leave better than he found it. To 
mention his works would be endless. His com- 
mentaries on Aristotle alone amount to three folios. 
Bertholdus Teutonicus, a very voluminous his- 
torian, was a pohtician, and wrote against the gov- 
ernment under which he lived : but most of his 
writings, though not all, are lost. 

Constantius Afer was a philosopher and physi- 
cian. We have remaining but two volumes folio 
of his philological performances. However, the 
historian who prefixes the hfe of the author to his 
Works, says, that he wrote many more, as he kept 
on writing during the course of a long life. 

Lambertus published a universal history about 
this time, which has been printed at Frankfort in 
folio. An universal history in one folio ! If he had 
consulted with his bookseller, he would have spun 
it out to ten at least; but Lambertus might have 
had too much modesty. 

By this time the reader perceives the spirit of 
learning which at that time prevailed. The igno- 
rance of the age was not owing to a dislike of know- 
ledge but a false standard of taste was erected, and 
a wrong direction given to philosophical inquiry. 
It was the fashion of the day to write dictionaries, 



commentaries, and compilations, and to evaporate 
in a folio the spirit that could scarcely have suificeS 
for an epigram. The most barbarous times had 
men of learning, if commentators, compilers, po- 
lemic divines, and intricate metaphysicians, de- 
served the title. 

I have mentioned but a very inconsiderable num- 
ber of the writers in this age of obscurity. The 
multiplicity of their publications will at least equal 
those of any similar period of the most polite an- 
tiquity. As, therefore, the writers of those times 
are almost entirely forgotten, we may infer, that the 
number of publications alone will never secure any 
age whatsoever from oblivion. Nor can printing, 
contrary to what Mr. Baumelle has remarked, pre- 
vent literary decline for the future, since it only in- 
creases the number of books, without advancing, 
their intrinsic merit. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Of the Present State of Polite Learning in Italy. 

Prom ancient we are now come to modern times^ 
and, in running over Europe, we shall find, that 
wherever learning has been cultivated, it has flour- 
ished by the same advaiitages as in Greece and 
Rome; and that, wherever it has declined, it sink& 
by the same causes of decay. 

Dante, the poet of Italy, who wrote in the thir- 
teenth century, was the first who attempted to bring 
learning from the cloister into the community, and 
paint human nature in a language adapted to mo- 
dern manners. He addressed a barbarous people 
in a method suited to their apprehensions; united 
purgatory and the river Styx, St. Peter and Virgil, 
Heaven and Hell together, and shows a strange 
mixture of good sense and absurdity. The truth 
is, he owes most of his reputation to the obscurity 
of the times in which he lived. As in the land of 
Benin a man may pass for a prodigy of parts who 
can read, so in an age of barbarity, a small degree 
of excellence ensures success. But it was great 
merit in him to have lifted up the standard of na- 
ture, in spite of all the opposition and the persecu- 
tion he received from contemporary criticism. To 
this standard every succeeding genius resorted ; the 
germ of every art and science began to unfold ; and 
to imitate nature was found to be the surest way 
of imitating antiquity. In a century or two after, 
modern Italy might justly boast of rivalling ancient 
Rome; equal in some branches of polite learning, 
and not far surpassed in others. 

They soon, however, fell from emulating the 
wonders of antiquity into simple admiration. As 
if the word had been given when Vida and Tasso 
wrote on the arts of poetry, the whole swarm of 
critics was up. The Speronis of the age attempt- 



THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 



127 



ed to be awkwardly merry; and the Virtuosi and 
the Nascotti sat upon the merits of every contem- 
porary performance. After the age of Clement VII. 
the Italians seemed to think that there was more 
merit in praising or censuring well, than in writing 
v/ell; almost every subsequent performance since 
their time, being designed rather to show the ex- 
cellence of the critic's taste than his genius. One 
or two poets, indeed, seem at present born to re- 
deem the honour of their country. Metastasio has 
restored nature in all her simplicity, and Maffei is 
the first that has introduced a tragedy among his 
countrymen without a love-plot. Perhaps the Sam- 
son of Milton, and the Athalia of Racine, might 
have been his guides in such an attempt. But two 
poets in an age are not suffered to revive the splen- 
dour of decaying genius; nor should we consider 
^em as the standard by which to characterize a 
nation. Our measures of literary reputation must 
be taken rather from that numerous class of men, 
who, placed above the vulgar, are yet beneath the 
great, and who confer fame on others without re- 
ceiving any portion of it themselves. 

In Italy, then, we shall no where find a stronger 
passion for the arts of taste, yet no country making 
more feeble efforts to promote either. The Vir- 
tuosi and Filosofi seem to have divided the Ency- 
clopedia between each other. Both inviolably at- 
tached to their respective pursuits ; and, from an 
opposition of character, each holding the other in 
the most sovereign contempt. The Virtuosi, pro- 
fessed critics of beauty in the works of art, judge 
of medals by the smell, and pictures by feeling; in 
Statuary, hang over a fragment with the most ar- 
dent gaze of admiration : though wanting the head 
and the other extremities, if dug from a ruin, the 
ToTse becomes inestimable. An imintelligible 
monument of Etruscan barbarity can not be suffi- 
ciently prized ; and any thing from Herculaneum 
excites rapture. When the intellectual taste is 
thus decayed, its relishes become false, and, like that 
of sense, nothing will satisfy but what is best suited 
to feed the disease. 

Poetry is no longer among them an imitation of 
what we see, but of what a visionary might wish. 
The zephyr breathes the most exquisite perfume, 
the trees wear eternal verdure ; fawns, and dryads, 
and hamadryads, stand ready to fan the sultry 
shepherdess, who has forgot indeed the pretti- 
nesses with which Guarini's shepherdesses have 
been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as 
often to have no meaning. Happy country, where 
the pastoral age begins to revive ! where the wits 
jven of Rome, are united into a rural group of 
nymphs and swains, under the appellation of mo- 
dern Arcadians : where in the midst of porticos, 
processions, and cavalcades, abbes turned shep- 
herds, and shepherdesses without sheep indulge 
their innocent didertimenti. 



The Filosofi are entirely different from the for- 
mer. As those pretend to have got their know- 
ledge from conversing with the living and polite, so 
these boast of having theirs from books and study. 
Bred up all their lives in colleges, they have there 
learned to think in track, servilely to follow the 
leader of their sect, and only to adopt such opinions 
as their universities, or the inquisition, are pleased 
to allow. By these means, they are behind the rest 
of Europe in several modern improvements; afraid 
to think for themselves; and their universities sel- 
dom admit opinions as true, till universally received 
among the rest of mankind. In short, were I to 
personize my ideas of learning in this country, I 
would represent it in the tawdry habits of the stage, 
or else in the more homely guise of bearded school- 
philosophy. 



CHAPTER V 

Of Polite Learning in Germany. 



If we examine the state of learning in Germany, 
we shall find that the Germans early discovered a 
passion for polite literature ; but unhappily, like con- 
querors, who, invading the dominions of others, 
leave their own to desolation, instead of studying 
the German tongue, they continue to write in Latin. 
Thus, while they cultivated an obsolete language, 
and vainly laboured to apply it to modern manners, 
they neglected their own. 

At the same time also, they began at the wrong 
end, I mean by being commentators; and though, 
they have given many instances of their industry, 
they have scarcely aflbrded any of genius. If cri- 
ticism could have improved the taste of a people, 
the Germans would have been the most polite na- 
tion alive. "We shall no where behold the learned 
wear a more important appearance than here; no 
where more dignified with professorships, or dress- 
ed out in the fopperies of scholastic finery. How- 
ever, they seem to earn all the honours of this kind 
which they enjoy. Their assiduity is unparal- 
leled; and did they employ half those hours on 
study which they bestow on reading, we might 
be induced to pity as well as praise their painful 
pre-eminence. But guilty of a fault too common 
to great readers, they write through volumes, while 
they do not think through a page. Never fatigued 
themselves, they think the reader can never be 
weary; so the}' drone on, saying all that can be said 
on the subject, not selecting what may be advanc- 
ed to the purpose. Were angels to write books, 
they never would write folios. 

But let the Germans have their due; if they are 
dull, no nation alive assumes a more laudable so- 
lemnity, or better understands all the decorums of 
stupidity. Let the discourse of a professor run on 



128 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



never so heavily, it can not be irksome to his dozing 
pupils, who frequently lend him sympathetic nods 
of approbation. I have sometimes attended their 
disputes at gradation. On this occasion they often 
dispense with their gravity, and seem really all 
alive. The disputes are managed between the fol- 
lowers of Cartesius (whose exploded system they 
continue to call the new philosophy) and those of 
Aristotle. Though both parties are in the wrong, 
they argue with an obstinacy worthy the cause of 
truth; Nego, Probo, and Distinguo, grow loud; the 
disputants become warm, the moderator can not 
be heard, the audience take part in the debate, till 
at last the whole hall buzzes with sophistry and 
error. 

There are, it is true, several societies in this 
country, which are chiefly calculated to promote 
knowledge. His late majesty as elector of Hano- 
ver, has established one at Gottingen, at an expense 
of not less than a hundred thousand pounds. This 
university has already pickled monsters, and dis- 
sected live puppies without number. Their trans- 
actions have been published in the learned world 
at proper intervals since their institution; and will, 
it is hoped, one day give them just reputation. 
But had the fourth part of the immense sum above 
mentioned been given in proper rewards to genius, 
in some neighbouring countries, it would have ren- 
dered the name of the donor immortal, and added 
to the real interests of society. 

Yet it ought to be observed, that, of late, learn- 
ing has been patronized here by a prince, who, in 
the humblest station, would have been the first of 
mankind. The society established by the king of 
Prussia, at Berlin, is one of the finest literary in- 
stitutions that any age or nation has produced. 
This academy comprehends all the sciences under 
four different classes ; and although the object of 
each is ditferent, and admits of being separately 
treated, yet these classes mutually influence the 
progress of each other, and concur in the same 
general design. Experimental philosophy, mathe- 
matics, metaphysics, and polite literature, are here 
carried on together. The members are not col- 
lected from among the students of some obscure 
seminary, or the wits of a metropolis, but chosen 
from all the literati of Europe, supported by the 
bounty, and ornamented by the productions of their 
royal founder. We can easily discern how much 
such an institution excels any other now subsisting. 
One fundamental error among societies of this kind, 
is their addicting themselves to one branch of sci- 
ence, or some particular part of polite learning. 
Thus, in Germany, there are no where so many 
establishments of this nature; but as they geneially 
profess the promotion of natural or medical know- 
ledge, he who reads their Acta will only find an 
obscure farago of experiment, most frequently ter- 



minated by no resulting phenomena. To make 
experiments, is, I own, the only way to promote 
natural knowledge ; but to treasure up every unsuc- 
cessful inquiry into nature, or to communicate 
every experiment without conclusion, is not to pro- 
mote science, but oppress it. Had the members 
of these societies enlarged their plans, and taken 
in art as well as science, one part of knowledge 
would have repressed any faulty luxuriance in the 
other, and all would have mutually assisted each 
other's promotion. Besides, the society which, 
with a contempt of all collateral assistance, admits 
of members skilled in one science only, whatever 
their diligence or labour may be, will lose much 
time in the discovery of such truths as are well 
known already to the learned in a different line; 
consequently, their progress must be slow in gain- 
ing a proper eminence from which to view their 
subject, and their strength will be exhausted in at- 
taining the station whence they should have set out. 
With regard to the Royal Society of London, the 
greatest, and perhaps the oldest institution of the 
kind, had it widened the basis of its institution, 
though they might not have propagated more dis- 
coveries, they would probably have delivered them 
in a more pleasing and compendious form. They 
would have been free from the contempt of the ill- 
natured, and the raillery of the wit, for which, even 
candour must allow, there is but too much founda- 
tion. But the Berlin academy is subject to none of 
all these inconveniences, but every one of its indivi- 
duals is in a capacity of deriving more from the 
common stock than he contributes to it, while each 
academician serves as a check upon the rest of his 
fellows. 

Yet, very probably, even this fine institution will 
soon decay. As it rose, so it will decline with its 
great encourager. The society, if I may so speak, 
is artificially supported. The introduction of fo- 
reigners of learning was right; but in adopting a 
foreign language also, I mean the French, in which 
all the transactions are to be published, and ques- 
tions debated, in this there was an error. As I 
have already hinted, the language of the natives of 
every country should be also the language of its 
polite learning. To figure in polite learning, every 
country should make their own language from their 
own manners; nor will they ever succeed by intro- 
ducing that of another, which has been foi'med 
from manners which are different. Besides, an 
academy composed of foreigners must still be re- 
cruited from abroad, unless all the natives of the 
country to which it belongs, are in a capacity of 
becoming candidates for its honours or rewards. 
While France therefore continues to supply Berlin, 
polite learning will flourish; but when royal favour 
is withdrawn, learning will return to its natural 
country. 



THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 



129 



CHAPTER VI. 

Of Polite Learning in Holland, and some other Countries of 
Europe. 

Holland, at first view, appears to have some 
pretensions to polite learning. It may be regarded 
as the great emporium, not less of literature than of 
every other commodity. Here, though destitute 
of what may be properly called a language of their 
own, all the languages are understood, cultivated, 
and spoken. All useful inventions in arts, and 
new discoveries in science, are published here almost 
as soon as at the places which first produced them. 
Its individuals have the same faults, however, with 
the Germans, of making more use of their memory 
than their judgment. The chief employment of 
their literati is to criticise, or answer, the new per- 
formances which appear elsewhere. 

A dearth of wit in France or England naturally 
produces a scarcity in Holland. What Ovid says 
of Echo, may be applied here. Nee loqui prius ipsa 
didicit nee reticere loquenti. They wait till some- 
thing new comes out from others; examine its me- 
rits, and reject it, or make it reverberate through 
the rest of Europe. 

After all, I know not whether they should be 
allowed any national character for polite learning. 
All their taste is derived to them from neighbouring 
nations, and that in a language not their own. 
They somewhat resemble their brokers, who trade 
for immense sums without having any capital. 

The other countries of Europe may be consider- 
ed as immersed in ignorance, or making but feeble 
efforts to rise. Spain has long fallen from amazing 
Europe with her wit, to amusing them with the 
greatness of her catholic credulity. Rome consi- 
ders her as the most favourite of aJl her children, 
and school divinity still reigns there in triumph. 
In spite of all attempts of the Marquis D'Ensana- 
da, who saw with regret the barbarity of his coun- 
trymen, and bravely offered to oppose it by intro- 
ducing new systems of learning, and suppressing 
the seminaries of monastic ignorance ; in spite of 
the ingeniiity of Padre Feio, whose book of vulgar 
errors so finely exposes the monkish stupidity of 
the times, — the religious have prevailed. Ensana- 
da has been banished, and now hves in exile. Peio 
has incurred the hatred and contempt of every bigot 
whose errors he has attempted to oppose, and feels 
no doubt the imremitting displeasure of the priest- 
hood. Persecution is a tribute the great must ever 
pay for pre-eminence. 

It is a Uttle extraordinaiy, however, how Spain, 
whose genius is naturally fine, should be so much 
behind the rest of Europe in this particular; or 
why school divinity should hold its ground there 
for nearly six hundred years. The reason must 
be that philosophical opinio is, which are otherwise 
9 



transient, acquire stability in proportion as they are 
connected with the laws of the country; and phi- 
losophy and law have no where been so closely 
united as here. 

Sweden has of late made some attempts in polite 
learning \n its own language. Count Tessin's in- 
structions to the prince, his pupil, are no bad be- 
ginning. If the Muses can fix their residencp so 
far northward, perhaps no country bids so fair for 
their reception. They have, I am told, a language 
rude but energetic ; if so, it will bear a polish. They 
have also a jealous sense of liberty, and that strength 
of thinking peculiar to northern climates, without 
its attendant ferocity. They will certainly in time 
produce somewhat great, if their intestine divisions 
do not unhappily prevent them. 

The history of polite learning in Denmark may 
be comprised in the life of one single man : it rose 
and fell with the late famous Baron Holberg. This 
was, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary per- 
sonages that has done honour to the present cen- 
tury. His being the son of a private sentinel did 
not abate the ardour of his ambition, for he learned 
to read though without a master. Upon the death 
of his father, being left entirely destitute, he was in 
volved in all that distress which is common amonc 
the poor, and of wliich the great have scarcely any 
idea. However, though only a boy of nine years 
old, he still persisted in pursuing his studies, tra- 
velled about from school to school, and begged his 
learning and his bread. When at the age of sev- 
enteen, instead of applying himself to any of the 
lower occupations, which seem best adapted to such 
circumstances, he was resolved to travel for im- 
provement from Norway, the place of his birth, to 
Copenhagen the capital city of Denmark. He 
lived there by teaching French, at the same timo 
avoiding no opportunity of improvement that his 
scanty funds could permit. But his ambition was 
not to be restrained, or his thirst of knowledge sa- 
tisfied, until he had seen the world. Without mo- 
ney, recommendations, or friends, he imdertook to 
set out upon his travels, and make the tour of Eu- 
rope on foot. A good voice, and a trifling skill in 
music, were the only finances he had to support an 
undertaking so extensive; so he travelled by day, 
and at night sung at the door of peasants' houses 
to get himself a lodging. In this manner, while 
yet very yoiuig, Holberg passed through France, 
Germany, and Holland; and coming over to Eng- 
land, took up his residence for two years in the 
university of Oxford. Here he subsisted by teach- 
ing French and music, and wrote his imiversal 
history, his earliest, but worst performance. Fur- 
nished with all the learning of Europe, he at last 
thought proper to return to Copenhagen, where his 
ingenious productions quickly gained him that fa- 
vour he deserved. He composed not less than eigh- 
teen comedies. Those in his own language are 



130 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



said to excel, and those which are translated into 
French have peculiar merit. He was honoured 
with nobility, and enriched by the bounty of the 
king ; so that a Ufe begun in contempt and penury, 
ended in opulence and esteem. 

Thus we see in what a low state polite learning 
is in the countries I have mentioned ; either past 
its prime, or not yet arrived at maturity. And 
though the sketch I have drawn be general, yet it 
was for the most part taken on the spot. I am sen- 
sible, however, of the impropriety of national reflec- 
tion; and did not truth bias me more than inclina- 
tioninthis particular, I should, instead of theaccount 
already given, have presented the reader with a 
panegyric on many of the individuals of every coun- 
try, whose merits deserve the warmest strains of 
praise. Apostolo Zeno, Algarotti, Goldoni, Mu- 
ratori, and Stay, in Italy; Haller, Klopstock, and 
Rabner, in Germany; Muschenbroek, and Gau- 
bius, in Holland ; all deserve the highest applause. 
Men like these, united by one bond, pursuing one 
design, spend their labour and their lives in making 
their fellow-creatures happy, and in repairing the 
breaches caused by ambition. In this hght, the 
meanest philosopher, though all his possessions are 
his lamp or his cell, is more truly valuable than he 
whose name echoes to the shout of the million, and 
who stands in all the glare of admiration. In this 
light, though poverty and contemptuous neglect 
are all the wages of his good-will from mankind, 
yet the rectitude of his intention is an ample re- 
compense ; and self-applause for the present, and 
the alluring prospect of fame for futurity, reward 
his labours. The perspective of life brightens up- 
on us, when terminated by an object so charming. 
Every intermediate image of want, banishment, or 
sorrow, receives a lustre from its distant influence. 
With this in view, the patriot, philosopher, and 
poet, have often looked with calmness on disgrace 
and famine, and rested on their straw with cheer- 
ful serenity. Even the last terrors of departing 
nature abate of their severity, and look kindly on 
him who considers his suflTerings as a passport to 
immortality, and lays his son'ows on the bed of 
fame. 



CHAPTER VII. 



Of Polite LearninK in France. 



We have hitherto seen, that wherever the poet 
was permitted to begin by improving his native 
language, polite learning flourished ; but where the 
critic undertook the same task, it has never risen 
to any degree of perfection. Let us now examine 
the merits of modern learning in France and Eng- 
land; where, though it may be on the decline, yet 
it is still capable of retrieving much of its former 



splendour. In other places learning has not yel 
been planted, or has suffered a total decay. To 
attempt amendment there, would be only Uke the 
application of remedies to an insensible or a morii- 
fied part, but here there is still life, and there is 
hope. And indeed the French themselves are so 
far from giving into any despondence of this kind, 
that on the contrary, they admire the progress they 
are daily making in every science. That levity, for 
which we are apt to despise this nation, is probably 
the principal source of their happiness. An agree- 
able oblivion of past pleasures, a freedom from soli- 
citude about future ones, and a poignant zest of 
every present enjoyment, if they be not philosophy, 
are at least excellent substitutes. By this they are 
taught to regard the period in which they live with 
admiration. The present manners, and the pre- 
sent conversation, surpass all that preceded. A 
similar enthusiasm as strongly tinctures their learn- 
ing and their taste. While we, with a despondence 
characteristic of our nature, are for removing back 
British excellence to the reign of Q,ueen Elizabeth, 
our more happy rivals of the continent cry up the 
writers of the present times with rapture, and re- 
gard the age of Louis XV. as the true Augustai> 
age of France. 

The truth is, their present vmters have not fall 
en so far short of the merits of their ancestors as 
ours have done. That self-sufficiency now men- 
tioned, may have been of service to them in this par- 
ticular. By fancying themselves superior to their 
ancestors, they have been encouraged to enter the 
lists with confidence ; and by not being dazzled at 
the splendour of another's reputation, have some- 
times had sagacity to mark out an unbeaten path to 
fame for themselves. 

Other causes also may be assigned, that their 
second growth of genius is still more vigorous than 
ours. Their encouragements to merit are more 
skilfully directed, the link of patronage and learn- 
ing still continues unbroken. The French nobility 
have certainly a most pleasing way of satisfying the 
vanity of an author, without indulging his avarice. 
A man of Uterary merit is sure of being caressed by 
the great, though seldom enriched. His pension 
from the crown just supplies half a competence, 
and the sale of his labours makes some small addi- 
tion to his circumstances. Thus the author leads 
a life of splendid poverty, and seldom becomes 
wealthy or indolent enough to discontinue an ex- 
ertion of those abilities by which he rose. With 
the English it is different. Our writers of rising 
merit are generally neglected, while the few of an 
established reputation are overpaid by luxurious af- 
fluence. The young encounter every hardship 
which generally attends upon aspiring indigence ; 
the old enjoy the vulgar, and perhaps the more pru- 
dent, satisfaction, of putting riches in competition 
with fame. Those are often seen to spend their 



THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 



131 



youth in want and obscurity; these are sometimes 
tbund to lead an old age of indolence and avarice. 
But such treatment must naturally be expected from 
Englishmen, whose national character it is to be 
slow and cautious in making friends, but violent in 
friendships once contracted. The English nobili- 
ty, in short, are often known to give greater re- 
wards to genius than the French, who, however, 
are much more judicious in the apphcation of their 
empty favours. 

The fair sex in France have also not a little con- 
tributed to prevent the decline of taste and hterature, 
by expecting such qualifications in their admirers. 
A man of fashion at Paris, however contemptible 
we may think him here, must be acquainted with 
the reigning modes of philosophy as well as of dress, 
to be able to entertain his mistress agreeably. The 
sprightly pedants are not to be caught by dumb 
show, by the squeeze of the hand, or the ogling of 
a broad eye; but must be pursued at once through 
all the labyrinths of the Newtonian system, or the 
metaphysics of Locke. I have seen as bright a cir- 
cle of beauty at the chemical lectures of Rouelle as 
gracing the court of Versailles. And indeed wis- 
dom never appears so charming as when graced 
and protected by beauty. 

To these advantages may be added, the recep- 
tion of their language in the different courts of Eu- 
rope. An author who excels is sure of having all 
the polite for admirers, and is encouraged to write 
by the pleasing expectation of universal fame. Add 
to this, that those countries who can make nothing 
good from their own language, have lately began 
to write in tliis, some of whose productions contri- 
bute to support the present literary reputation of 
France. 

There are, therefore, many among the French 
who do honour to the present age, and whose wiit- 
ings will be transmitted to posterity with an ample 
share of fame; some of the most celebrated are as 
follow : — 

Voltaire, whose voluminous, yet spirited produc- 
tions are too well known to require an eulogy. 
Does he not resemble the champion mentioned by 
Xenophon, of great reputation in all the gymnastic 
exercises united, but inferior to each champion 
singly, who excels only in one? 

Montesquieu, a name equally deserving fame 
with the former. The Spirit of Laws is an instance 
how much genius is able to lead learning. His sys- 
tem has been adopted by the literati; and yet, is it 
not possible for opinions equally plausible to be 
formed upon opposite principles, if a genius like 
his could be found to attempt such an undertaldng? 
He seems more a poet than a philosopher. 

Rousseau of Geneva, a professed man-hater, or 
more properly speaking, a philosopher enraged with 
one half of mankind, because they unavoidably 
make the other half unhappy. Such sentiments 



are generally the result of much good-nature and 
little experience. 

Piron, an author possessed of as much wit as 
any man ahve, yet with as little prudence to turn it 
to his own advantage. A comedy of his, called 
La Metromanie, is the best theatrical production 
that has appeared of late in Europe. But I know 
not whether I should most commend his genius or 
censure his obscenity. His Ode d Priape has j ust- 
ly excluded him from a place in the academy of Bel- 
les-Lettres. However, the good-natured Montes- 
quieu, by his interest, procured the starving bard a 
trifling pension. His own epitaph was all the re- 
venge he took upon the academy for being repulsed. 

Ci-git Piron, qui ne fut jamais rien, 

Pas merae acad6micien. 

Crebillon, junior, a writer of real merit, but guil- 
ty of the same indelicate faults with the former. 
Wit employed in dressing up obscenity is like the 
art used in painting a corpse ; it may be thus ren- 
dered tolerable to one sense, but faUs not quickly 
to offend some other. 

Gresset is agreeable and easy. His comedy call- 
ed the Mechant, and a humorous poem entitled 
Ververf, have original merit. He was bred a 
Jesuit ; but his wit procured his dismission from the 
society. This last work particularly could expect 
no pardon from the Convent, being a satire against 
nunneries! 

D' Alembert has united an extensive skill in sci- 
entifical learning with the most refined taste for 
the polite arts. His excellence in both has procur- 
ed him a seat in each academy. 

Diderot is an elegant writer and subtle reasoner, 
He is the supposed author of the famous Thesis 
which the abbe Prade sustained before the doctors 
of the Sorbonne. It was levelled against Chris- 
tianity, and the Sorbonne too hastily gave it their 
sanction. They perceived its purport, however, 
when it was too late. The college was brought in- 
to some contempt, and the abbe obliged to take 
refuge at the court of Berlin. 

The Marquis D'Argens attempts to add the 
character of a philosopher to the vices of a debau- 
chee. 

The catalogue might be increased with several 
other authors of merit, such as Marivaux, Lefranc, 
Saint-Foix, Destouches, and Modonville ; but let it 
suifice to say, that by these the character of the 
present age is tolerably supported. Though their 
poets seldom rise to fine enthusiasm, they never 
sink into absurdity; though they fail to astonish, 
they are generally possessed of talents to please. 

The age of Louis XIV, notwithstanding these 
respectable names, is still vastly superior. For be- 
side the general tendency of critical corruption, 
which shall be spoken of by and by, there are other 
symptoms which indicate a decUne. There is, for 
instance, a fondness of scepticism, which runs 



132 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



through the works of some of thek most applauded 
writers, and which the numerous class of their imi- 
tators have contributed to diffuse. Nothing can 
be a more certain sign tJiat genius is in the wane, 
than its being obliged to fly to paradox for support, 
and attempting to be erroneously agreeable. A 
man who, with all the impotence of wit, and all the 
eager desires of infideUty, writes against the religion 
of his country, may raise doubts, but will never 
give conviction ; all he can do is to render society 
less happy than he found it. It was a good man- 
ner which the father of the late poet, Saint-Foix, 
"-'4ook to reclaim his son from this juvenile error. 
The young poet had shut himself up for some time 
in his study ; and his father, wUling to know what 
had engaged his attention so closely, upon entering 
found him busied in drawing up a new system of 
religion, and endeavouring to show the absurdity 
of that already established. The old man knew 
by experience, that it was useless to endeavour to 
convince a vain young man by right reason, so 
only desired his company up stairs. When come 
into the father's apartment, he takes his son by the 
hand, and drawing back a curtain at one end of 
the room, discovered a crucifix exquisitely painted. 
"My son," says he, "you desire to change the re- 
ligion of your country, — ^behold the fate of a re- 
former." The truth is, vanity is more apt to mis- 
guide men than false reasoning. As some would 
rather be conspicuous in a mob than unnoticed 
even in a privy-council, so others choose rather to 
be foremost in the retinue of error than follow in 
the train of truth. What influence the conduct 
of such writers may have on the morals of a people, 
is not my business here to determine. Certain 1 
am, that it has a manifest tendency to subvert the 
literary merits of the country in view. The change 
of religion in every nation has hitherto produced 
barbarism and ignorance ; and such will be proba- 
bly its consequence in every future period. For 
when the laws and opinions of society are made to 
clash, harmony is dissolved, and all the parts of 
peace unavoidably crushed in the encounter. 

The writers of this country have also of late 
fallen into a method of considering every part of art 
and science as arising from simple principles. The 
success of Montesquieu, and one or two more, has 
induced all the subordinate ranks of genius into vi- 
cious imitation. To this end they turn to our view 
that side of the subject which contributes to sup- 
port their hypothesis, while the objections are gen- 
erally passed over in silence. Thus a universal 
system rises from a partial representation of the 
question, a whole is concluded from a pai-t, a book 
appears entirely new, and the fancy-buUt fabric is 
styled for a short time very ingenious. In this 
manner, we have seen of late almost every subject 
in morals, natural history, politics, economy, and 
commerce, treated. Subjects naturally proceeding 



on many principles, and some even opposite to 
each other, are all taught to proceed along the hne 
of systematic simplicity, and continue, like otlici 
agreeable falsehoods, extremely pleasing tUl they 
are detected. 

I must still add another fault, of a nature some 
what similar to the former. As those above men- 
tioned are for contracting a single science into 
system, so those I am going to speak of are for 
drawing up a system of all the sciences united. 
Such undertakings as these are carried on by dif- 
ferent writers cemented into one body, and con- 
curring in the same design by the mediation of a 
bookseller. From these inauspicious combinations 
proceed those monsters of learning the Trevoux, 
Encyclopedies, and Bibliotheques of the age. In 
making these, men of every rank in hterature are 
employed, wits and dunces contribute their share, 
and Diderot, as well as Desmaretz, are candidates 
for oblivion. The genius of the first supplies the 
gale of favour, and the latter adds the useful ballast 
of stupidity. By such means, the enormous mass 
heavily makes its way among the public, and, to 
borrow a bookseller's phrase, the whole impression 
moves off. These great collections of learning 
may serve to make us inwardly repine at our own 
ignorance ; may serve, when gilt and lettered, to 
adorn the lower shelves of a regular hbrary ; but 
wo to the reader, who, not daunted at the immense 
distance between one great pasteboard and the 
other, opens the volume, and explores his way 
through a region so extensive, but barren of enter 
tainment. No unexpected landscape there to de 
light the imagination ; no diversity of prospect to 
cheat the painful journey. He sees the wide ex- 
tended desert lie before him : what is past, only in 
creases his terror of what is to come. His course 
is not half finished ; he looks beliind him with af- 
fright, and forward with despair. Perseverance is 
at last overcomf>, and a night of oblivion lends its 
friendly aid to terminate the perplexity. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



Of Learning in Great Britain. 



To acquire a character for learning among the 
EngUsh at present, it is necessary to know much 
more than is either important or useful. It seems 
the spirit of the times for men here to exhaust their 
natural sagacity in exploring the intricacies of ano- 
ther man's thought, and thus never to have leisure 
to think for themselves. Others have carried on 
learning from that stage, where the good sense of 
our ancestors have thought it too minute or too 
speculative to instruct or amuse. By the industry 
of such, the sciences, which in themselves are easy 
of access, affright the learner with the severity of 
their appearance. He sees them surrounded with 



THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 



133 



speculation and subtlety, placed there by their pro- 
fessors, as if with a view of deterring his approach. 
Hence it happens, that the generality of readers fly 
from the scholar to the compiler, who oifers them 
a more safe and speedy conveyance. 

From this fault also arises that mutual contempt 
between the scholar and the man of the world, of 
which every day's experience furnishes instances. 
The man of taste, however, stands neutral in 
this controversy. He seems placed in a middle sta- 
tion, between the world and the cell, between learn- 
ing and common sense. He teaches the vulgar on 
what part of a character to lay the emphasis of 
praise, and the scholar where to point his applica- 
tion so as to deserve it. By his means, even the 
philosopher acquires popular applause, and all that 
are truly great the admiration of posterity. By 
means of polite learning alone, the patriot and the 
hero, the man who praises virtue, and he who prac- 
tises it, who fights successfully for his country, or 
who dies in its defence, becomes immortal. But 
this taste now seems cultivated with less ardour than 
formerly, and consequently the puUic must one day 
expect to see the advantages arising from it, and 
the exquisite pleasures it affords our leisure, en- 
tirely annihilated. For if, as it should seem, the 
rewards of genius are improperly directed; if those 
who are capable of supporting the honour of the 
times by their writings prefer opulence to fame; if 
the stage should be shut to writers of merit, and 
open only to interest or intrigue ; — if such should 
happen to be the vile complexion of the times (and 
that it is nearly so we shall shortly see), the very 
virtue of the age will be forgotten by posterity, and 
nothing remembered, except our filling a chasm in 
the registers of time, or having served to continue 
the species. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Of rew arding Genius in England. 

There is nothing authors are more apt to lament 
than want of encouragement from the age. What- 
ever their differences in other respects, they are all 
ready to unite in this complaint, and each indirectly 
offers himself as an instance of the truth of his as- 
sertion. 

The beneficed divine, whose wants are only ima- 
ginary, expostulates as bitterly as the poorest au- 
thor. Should interest or good fortune advance the 
divine to a bishopric, or the poor son of Parnassus 
into that place which the other has resigned, both 
are authors no longer ; the one goes to prayers once 
a-day, kneels upon cushions of velvet, and thanks 
gracious Heaven for having made the circumstances 
of all mankind ao extremely happy ; the other bat- 
tens on all the delicacies of life, enjoys his wife and 



his easy chair, and sometimes, for the sake of con- 
versation, deplores the luxury of these degenerate 
days. 

All encouragements to merit are therefore mis- 
applied, which make the author too rich to con 
tinue his profession. There can be nothing more 
just than the old observation, that authors, like 
•unning horses, should be fed but not fattened. If 
we would continue them in our service, we should 
reward them with a little money and a great deal 
of praise, still keeping their avarice subservient to 
their ambition. Not that I think a writer incapa- 
ble of filling an employment with dignity: I would 
only insinuate, that when made a bishop or states- 
man, he will continpe to please us as a writer no 
longer; as, to resume a former allusion, the running 
horse, when fattened, will still be fit for very useful 
purposes, though unqualified for a courser. 

No nation gives greater encouragements to learn- 
ing than we do ; yet, at the same time, none are so 
injudicious in the application. We seem to confer 
them with the same ^dewthat statesmen have been 
known to grant employments at court, rather as 
bribes to silence than incentives to emulation. 

Upon this principle, all our magnificent endow- 
ments of colleges are erroneous ; and at best more 
frequently enrich the prudent than reward the in- 
genuous. A lad whose passions are not strong 
enough in youth to mislead him from that path of 
science which his tutors, and not his inclinations, 
have chalked out, by four or five years' perseverance 
may probably obtain every advantage and honour 
his college can bestow. I forget whether the simile 
has been used before, but I would compare the man, 
whose youth has been thus passed in the tran- 
quillity of dispassionate prudence, to liquors which 
never ferment, and consequently continue always 
muddy. Passions may raise a commotion in the 
youthful breast, but they disturb only to. refine it. 
However this be, mean talents are often rewarded 
in colleges with an easy subsistence. The candi- 
dates for preferments of this kind often regard their 
admission as a patent for future indolence ; so that 
a life begun in studious labour is often continued 
in luxurious indolence. 

Among the universities abroad, I have ever ob- 
served their riches and their learning in a recipro- 
cal proportion, their stupidity and pride increasing 
with their opulence. Happening once, in conver- 
sation with Gaubius of Leyden, to mention the 
college of Edinburgh, he began by complaining, 
that all the English students which formerly came 
to his university now went entirely there ; and the 
fact surprised him more, as Leyden was now as 
well as ever furnished with masters excellent in 
their respective professions. He concluded by ask- 
ing, if the professors of Edinburgh were rich 7 I 
replied, that the salary of a professor there seldom 
amounted to more than thirty pounds a -year. Poor 



134 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



men, says he, I heartily wish they were better pro- 
vided for ; until they become rich, we can have no 
expectation of English students at Leyden. 

Premiums also, proposed for literary excellence, 
when given as encouragements to boys, may be 
useful ; but when designed as rewards to men, are 
, certainly misapplied. We have seldom seen a per- 
formance of any great merit, in consequence of re- 
v/ards proposed in this manner. Who has ever 
observed a writer of any eminence a candidate in 
so precarious a contestl The man who knows the 
real value of his own genius, vyill no more venture 
it upon an uncertainty, than he who linows the true 
use of a guinea will stake it with a sharper. 

Every encouragement given to stupidity, when 
known to be such, is also a negative insult upon 
genius. This appears in nothing more evident than 
the undistinguished success of those who solicit sub- 
scriptions. When first brought into fashion, sub- 
scriptions were conferred upon the ingenious alone, 
or those who were reputed such. But at present, 
we see them made a resource of indigence, and re- 
quested, not as rewards of merit, but as a relief of 
distress. If tradesmen happen to want skill in con- 
ducting their own business, yet they are able to 
write a book : if mechanics want money, or ladies 
shame, they write books and solicit subscriptions. 
Scarcely a morning passes, that proposals of this 
nature are not thrust into the half-opening doors 
of the rich, with, perhaps, a paltry petition, show- 
ing the author's wants, but not his merits. I would 
not willingly prevent that pity which is due to in- 
digence ; but while the streams of liberahty are thus 
diffused, they must, in the end, become proportiona- 
bly shallow. 

What then are the proper encouragements of 
genius? I answer, subsistence and respect; for these 
are rewards congenial to its nature. Every animal 
has an aliment peculiarly suited to its constitution. 
The heavy ox seeks nourishment from earth ; the 
light cameleon has been supposed to exist on air; 
a sparer diet even than this will satisfy the man of 
true genius, for he makes a luxurious banquet upon 
empty applause. It is this alone which has in- 
spired all that ever was truly great and noble among 
us. It is, as Cicero finely calls it, the echo of virtue. 
Avarice is the passion of inferior natures ; money 
the pay of the common herd. The author who 
draws his quill merely to take a purse, no more de- 
serves success than he who presents a pistol. 

When the link between patronage and learning 
was entire, then all who deserved fame were in a 
capacity of attaining it. When the great Somers 
was at the helm, patronage was fashionable among 
our nobilitjr. The middle ranks of mankind, who 
generally imitate the great, then followed their ex- 
ample, and applauded from fashion if not from feel- 
ing. I have heard an old poet* of that glorious age 
' Dr. Young. 



say, that a dinner with his lordship has procured 
him invitations for the whole week following; that 
an airing in his patron's chariot has supplied him 
with a citizen's coach-on every future occasion. For 
who would not be proud to entertain a man who 
kept so much good company "J 

But this link now seems entirely broken. Since 
the days of a certain prime minister of inglorious 
memory, the learned have been kept pretty much 
at a distance. A jockey, or a laced player, sup- 
plies the place of the scholar, poet, or the man of 
virtue. Those conversations, once the result of 
wisdom, wit, and innocence, are now turned to 
humbler topics, little more being expected from a 
companion than a laced coat, a pliant bow, and an 
immoderate friendship for a well-served table. 

Wit, when neglected by the great, is generally 
despised by the vulgar. Those who are unacquaint- 
ed with the world, are apt to fancy the man of wit 
as leading a very agreeable life. They conclude, 
perhaps, that he is attended to with silent admira- 
tion, and dictates to the rest of mankind with all 
the eloquence of conscious superiority. Very dif- 
ferent is his present situation. He is called an 
author, and all know that an author is a thing only 
to be laughed at. His person, not his jest, becomes 
the mirth of the company. At his approach, the 
most fat unthinking face brightens into maUcious 
meaning. Even aldermen laugh, and revenge on 
him the ridicule which was lavished on their fore- 
fathers : 

Etiam victis redit in praecordia virtus, 
Victoresque cadimt. 

It is indeed a reflection somewhat mortifying to 
the author, who breaks his ranks, and singles out 
for public favour, to think that he must combat 
contempt before he can arrive at glory. That he 
must expect to have all the fools of society united 
against him, before he can hope for the applause 
of the judicious. For this, however, he must pre- 
pare beforehand; as those who have no idea of the 
difficulty of his emplojrment, will be apt to regard 
his inactivity as idleness, and not having a notion 
of the pangs of uncomplying thought in themselves, 
it is not to be expected they should have any de- 
sire of rewarding it in others. 

Voltaire has finely described the hardships a 
man must encounter who writes for the public. I 
need make no apology for the length of the quota- 
tion. 

"Your fate, my dear Le Fevre, is too strongly 
marked to permit your retiring. The bee must 
toil in making honey, the silk-worm must spin, the 
philosopher must dissect them, and you are born to 
sing of their labours. You must be a poet and a 
scliolar, even though your inclinations should re- 
sist : nature is too strong for inclination. But hope 
not, my friend, to find tranquillity in the employ- 
ment you are going to pursue. The route of genius 



THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 



135 



is not less obstructed with disappointment than 
that of ambition. 

" If you have the misfortune not to excel in your 
profession as a poet, repentance must tincture all 
your future enjoyments : if you succeed you make 
enemies. You tread a narrow path. Contempt 
on one side, and hatred on the other, are ready to 
seize you upon the slightest deviation, 

"But why must I be hated, you will perhaps 
reply ; why must I be persecuted for having writ- 
ten a pleasing poem, for having produced an ap- 
plauded tragedy, or for otherwise instructing or 
amusing mankind or myself? 

" My dear friend, these very successes shall ren- 
der you miserable for life. Let me suppose your 
performance has merit ; let me suppose you have 
surmounted the teasing employments of printing 
and publishing; how will you be able to lull the 
critics, who, like Cerberus, are posted at all the 
avenues of literature, and who settle the merits of 
every new performance? How, I say, will you be 
able to make them open in your favour? There 
are always three or four literary journals in France, 
as many in Holland, each supporting opposite in- 
terests. The booksellers who guide these periodi- 
cal compilations, find their account in being severe ; 
the authors employed by them have wretchedness 
to add to their natural malignity. The majority 
may be in your favour, but you may depend on 
being torn by the rest. Loaded with unmerited 
scurrility, perhaps you reply; they rejoin; both 
plead at the bar of the pmblic, and both are con- 
demned to ridicule. 

" But if you write for the stage, your case is still 
more worthy compassion. You are there to be 
judged bj^ men whom the custom of the times has 
rendered contemptible. Irritated by their own in- 
feriority, they exert all their little tyranny upon 
you, revenging upon the author the insults they 
receive from the public. From such men, then, 
you are to expect your sentence. Suppose your 
piece admitted, acted: one single ill-natured jest 
from the pit is sufficient to cancel all your labours. 
But allowing that it succeeds. There are a hun- 
dred squibs flying all abroad to prove that it should 
not have succeeded. You shall find your brightest 
scenes burlesqued by the ignorant; and the learned, 
who know a little Greek, and nothing of their na- 
tive language, affect to despise you. 

" But perhaps, with a panting heart, you carry 
your piece before a woman of quality. She gives 
the labours of your brain to her maid to be cut into 
shreds for curling her hair; while the laced foot- 
man, who carries the gaudy livery of luxurj^', in- 
sults your appearance, who bear the livery of indi- 
gence._ 

" But granting your excellence has at last forced 
envy to confess that your works have some merit; 
this then is all the reward you can expect while 



Uving. However, for this tribute of applause, you 
must expect persecution. You will be reputed the 
author of scandal which you have never seen, of 
verses you despise, and of sentiments directly con- 
trary to your own. In short, you must embark in 
some one party, or all parties will be against you. 

" There are among us a number of learned so- 
cieties, where a lady presides, whose wit begins to 
twinkle when the splendour of her beauty begins 
to decline. One or two men of learning compose 
her ministers of state. These must be flattered, or 
made enemies by being neglected. Thus, though 
you had the merit of all antiquity united in your 
person, you grow old in misery and disgrace. Eve- 
ry place designed for men of letters is filled up by 
men of intrigue. Some nobleman's private tutor, 
some court flatterer, shall bear away the prize, and 
leave you to anguish and to disappointment." 

Yet it were well if none but the dunces of socie- 
ty were combined to render the profession of an 
author ridiculous or unhappy. Men of the first 
eminence are often found to indulge this illiberal 
vein of raillery. Two contending writers often, by 
the opposition of their wit, render their profession 
contemptible in the eyes of ignorant persons, who 
should have been taught to admire. And yet, what- 
ever the reader may think of himself, it is at least 
two to one but he is a greater blockhead than the 
most scribbling dunce he affects to despise. 

The poet's poverty is a standing topic of con- 
tempt. His writing for bread is an unpardonable 
offence. Perhaps of all mankind an author in 
these times is used most hardly. We keep him 
poor, and yet revile his poverty. Like angry pa- 
rents who correct their children till they cry, ajid 
then correct them for crying, we reproach him for 
living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means 
to hve. 

His taking refuge in garrets and cellars, has of 
late been violently objected to him, and that by men 
who I dare hope are more apt to pity than insult 
his distress. Is poverty the writer's fault? No 
doubt he knows how to prefer a bottle of cham- 
pagne to the nectar of the neighbouring alehouse, 
or a venison pasty to a plate of potatoes. Want 
of delicacy is not in him but in us, who deny him 
the opportunity of making an elegant choice. 

Wit certainly is the property of those who have 
it, nor should we be displeased if it is the only pro- 
perty a man sometimes has. We must not under- 
rate him who uses it for subsistence, and flies from 
the ingratitude of the age even to a bookseller for 
redress. If the profession of an author is to be 
laurrhed at by the stupid, it is certainly better to be 
contemptibly rich than contemptibly poor. For all 
the wit that ever adorned the human mind, will at 
present no more shield the author's poverty from 
ridicule, than his high-topped gloves conceal the 
unavoidable omissions of his laundress. 



136 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



To be more serious, new fashions, follies, and 
vices, make new monitors necessary in every age. 
An author may be considered as a merciful sub- 
stitute to the legislature. He acts not by punishing 
crimes, but preventing them. However virtuous 
the present age, there may be still growing employ- 
ment for ridicule or reproof, for persuasion or satire 
If the author be therefore still so necessary among 
us, let us treat him with proper consideration as a 
child of the public, not a rent-charge on the com- 
munity. And indeed a child of the public he is in all 
respects; for while so well able to direct others, how 
incapable is he frequently found of guiding himself! 
His simplicity exposes him to all the insidious ap- 
proaches of cunning; his sensibilitj'-, to the slightest 
invasions of contempt. Though possessed of for- 
titude to stand unmoved the expected bursts of an 
earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant 
as to agonize under the shghtest disappointment. 
Broken rest, tasteless meals, and causeless anxiety, 
shorten his life, or render it unfit for active em- 
ployment : prolonged vigils and intense application 
still further contract his span, and make his time 
glide insensibly away. Let us not, then, aggravate 
those natural inconveniences by neglect; we have 
had sufficient instances of this kind already. Sale 
and Moore will suffice for one age at least. But 
they are dead, and their sorrows are over. The 
neglected author of the Persian eclogues, which, 
however inaccurate, excel any in our language, is 
still alive, — happy, if insensible of our neglect, not 
raging at our ingratitude.* It is enough that the 
age has already produced instances of men press- 
ing foremost in the lists of fame, and worthy of bet- 
ter times; schooled by continued adversity into a 
hatred of their kind; flying from thought to drunk- 
enness; yielding to the united pressure of labour, 
penury, and soitow; sinking unheeded, without 
one friend to drop a tear on their unattended obse- 
quies, and indebted to charity for a grave.^ 

The author, when unpatronized by the great, 
has naturally recourse to the bookseller. There 
can not be perhaps imagined a combination more 
prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of 
the one to allow as little for writing, and of the 
other to write as much as possible. Accordingly, 
tedious compilations and periodical magazines are 
the result of their joint endeavours. In these cir- 
cumstances, the author bids adieu to fame, writes 
for bread, and for that only imagination is seldom 
called in. He sits down to address the venal muse 
with the most phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are 
told of the Russians, courts his mistress by falling 
asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in 
a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally 
value him, not for the fineness of his compositions, 
but the qiiantity he works off in a given time. 
A long habit of vfriting for bread thus turns the 



' Our author here alludes to the insanity of Collins. 



ambition of every author at last into avarice. He 
finds that he has written many years, that the pub- 
Uc are scarcely acquainted even with his name ; he 
despairs of applause, and turns to profit which in- 
vites him. He finds that money procures all those 
advantages, that respect, and that ease, which he 
vainly expected from fame. Thus the man who, 
under the protection of the great, might have done 
honour to humanity when only patronized by the 
bookseller, becomes a thing little superior to the 
fellow who works at the press. 



CHAPTER X. 

Of the Marks of Literaiy Decay in France and England. 

The faults already mentioned are such as learn- 
ing is often found to flourish under; but there is 
one of a much more dangerous nature, which has 
begun to fix itself among us. I mean criticism, 
which may properly be called the natural destroyer 
of polite learning. We have seen that critics, or 
those whose only business is to write books upon 
other books, are always more numerous, as learning 
is moredifl^used; and experience has shown, that in- 
stead of promoting its interest, which they profess 
to do, they generally injure it. This decay which 
criticism produces may be deplored, but can scarcely 
be remedied, as the man who writes against the 
critics is obliged to add himself to the number. 
Other depravations in the republic of letters, such 
as affectation in some popular writer leading others 
into vicious imitation; political struggles in the 
state ; a depravity of morals among the people ; ill- 
directed encouragement, or no encouragement from 
the great, — these have been often found to co-ope- 
rate in the decline of literature ; and it has some- 
times declined, as in modern Italy, without them ; 
but an increase of criticism has always portended 
a decay. Of all misfortunes therefore in the com- 
monwealth of letters, this of judging from rule, 
and not from feehng, is the most severe. At .such 
a tribunal no work of original merit can please. 
Sublimity, if carried to an exalted height, approach- 
es burlesque, and humour sinks into vulgarity. 
The person who can not feel may ridicule both as 
such, and bring rules to corroborate his assertion. 
There is, in short, no excellence in writing that 
such judges may not place among the neighbouring 
defects. Rules render the reader more difficult to 
be pleased, and abridge the author's power of pleas- 
ing. 

If we turn to either country, we shall perceive 
evident symptoms of this natural decay beginning 
to appear. Upon a moderate calculation?, there 
seems to be as many volumes of criticism published 
in those countries, as of all other kinds of polite 
erudition imited. Paris sends forth not less than 



THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 



137 



four literary journals every month, the Annee-Lit- 
tera.ire and the Feuille by Freron, the Journal 
Etr anger by the ChevaUer D'Arc, and Le Mer- 
cure by Marmontel. We have two literary reviews 
in London, with critical newspapers and magazines 
without number. The compilers of these resem- 
ble the commoners of Rome ; they are all for level 
ling propertj', not by increasing their own, but by 
diminishing that of others. The man who has any 
good-nature in his disposition must, however, be 
somewhat displeased to see distinguished reputation 
often the sport of ignorance, — to see by one false 
pleasantry, the future peace of a worthy man's life 
disturbed, and this only, because he has unsuccess- 
fully attempted to instruct or amuse us. Though 
ill-nature is far from being wit, yet it is generally 
laughed at as such. The critic enjoys the triumph, 
and ascribes to his parts what is only due to his ef- 
frontery. I fire with indignation, when I see per- 
sons wholly destitute of education and genius in- 
dent to the press, and thus turn book-makers, adding 
to the sin of criticism the sin of ignorance also ; 
whose trade is a bad one, and who are bad work- 
men in the trade. 

When I consider those industrious men as in- 
debted to the works of others for a precarious sub- 
sistence, when I see them coming down at stated 
intervals to rummage the bookseller's counter for 
materials to work upon, it raises a smile though 
mixed with pity. It reminds me of an animal call- 
ed by naturalists the soldier. This little creature, 
says the historian, is passionately fond of a shell, 
but not being supplied with one by nature, has re- 
course to the deserted shell of some other. I have 
seen these harmless reptiles, continues he, come 
down once a-year from the mountains, rank and 
file, cover the whole shore, and ply busily about, 
each in quest of a shell to please it. Nothing can 
be more amusing than their industry upon this oc- 
casion. One shell is too big, another too little : they 
enter and keep possession sometimes for a good 
while, until one is, at last, found entirely to please. 
When all are thus properly equipped, they march 
up again to the mountains, and live in their new 
acquisition till under a necessity of changing. 

There is indeed scarcely an error of which our 
present writers are guilty, that does not arise from 
their opposing systems; there is scarcely an error 
that criticism can not be brought to excuse. From 
this proceeds the afi'ected security of our odes, the 
tuneless flow of our blank verse, the pompous epi- 
thet, laboured diction, and every other deviation 
from common sense, which procures the poet the 
applause of the month : he is praised by all, read 
by a few, and soon forgotten. 

There never was an unbeaten path trodden by 
the poet that the critic did not endeavour to reclaim 
him, by calling his attempt innovation. This might 
be instanced in Dante, who first followed nature, 



and was persecuted by the critics as long as he liv- 
ed. Thus novelty, one of the greatest beauties in 
poetry, must be avoided, or the connoisseur be dis- 
pleased. It is one of the chief privileges, however, 
of genius, to fly from the herd of imitators by some 
happy singularity; for should he stand still, his 
heavy pursuers will at length certainly come up, 
and fairly dispute the victory. 

The ingenious Mr. Hogarth used to assert, that 
every one except the connoisseur was a judge of 
painting. The same may be asserted of writing : 
the public, in general, set the whole piece in the 
proper point of view ; the critic lays his eye close 
to all its minuteness, and condemns or approves in 
detail. And this may be the reason why so many 
wiiters at present arc apt to appeal from the tribu- 
nal of criticism to that of the people. 

From a desire in the critic, of grafting the spirit 
of ancient languages upon the English, has proceed- 
ed, of late, several disagreeable instances of pedant- 
ry. Among the number, I think we may reckon 
blank verse. Nothing but the greatest sublimity 
of subject can render such a measure pleasing; 
however, we now see it used upon the most trivial 
occasions. It has particularly found its way into 
our didactic poetry, and is likely to bring that spe- 
cies of composition into disrepute for which the 
English are deservedly famous. 

Those who are acquainted with writing, know 
that our language runs almost naturally into blank 
verse. The writers of our novels, romances, and 
all of this class who have no notion of style, natu- 
rally hobble into this unharmonious measure. If 
rhymes, therefore, be more diflicult, for that very 
reason I would have our poets write in rhyme. 
Such a restriction upon the thought of a good poet, 
often lifts and increases the vehemence of every 
sentiment ; for fancy, like a fountain, plays high- 
est by diminishing the aperture. But rhymes, it 
will be said, are a remnant of monkish stupidity, 
an innovation upon the poetry of the ancients. 
They are but indifl^erently acquainted with anti- 
quity who make the assertion. Rhymes are pro- 
bably of older date than either the Greek or Latin 
dactyl and spondee. The Celtic, which is allowed 
to be the first language spoken in Europe, has ever 
preserved them, as we may find in the Edda of Ice- 
land, and the Irish carols, still sung among the ori- 
ginal inhabitants of that island. Olaus Wormius 
gives us some of the Teutonic poetry in this way; 
and Pontoppidan, bishop of Bergen, some of the 
Norwegian. In short, this jingle of sounds is al- 
most natural to mankind, at least it is so to our lan- 
guage, if we may judge from many unsuccessful 
attempts to throw it off. 

1 should not have employed so much time in op- 
posing this erroneous innovation, if it were not apt 
to introduce another in its train; I mean, a disgust- 
ing manner of solemnity into our poetry ; and, as the 



,138 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



prose writer has been ever found to follow the poet, 
it must consequently banish in both all that agreea- 
ble trifling, which, if I may so express it, often 
deceives us into instruction. The finest senti- 
ment and the most weighty truth may put on a 
pleasant face, and it is even virtuous to jest when 
serious advice must be disgusting. But instead of 
this, the most trifling performance among us now 
assumes all the didactic stiffness of wisdom. The 
most diminutive son of fame or of famine has his 
■ tee and his us, his Jirstlys and his secondlys, as 
methodical as if bound in cow hide, and closed with 
clasps of brass. Were these monthly reviews and 
magazines frothy, pert, or absurd, they might find 
some pardon ; but to be dull and dronish is an en- 
croachment on the prerogative of a folio. These 
things should be considered as pills to purge melan- 
choly ; they should be made up in our splenetic cli- 
mate to be taken as physic, and not so as to be used 
when we take it. 

However, by the power of one single monosyl- 
lable, our critics have almost got the victory over 
humour amongst us. Does the poet paint the ab 
surdities of the vulgar, then he is luw ; does he ex- 
aggerate the features of folly, to render it more 
thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very low. In 
short, they have proscribed the comic or satirical 
muse from every walk but high life, which, though 
abounding in fools as well as the humblest station, 
is by no means so fruitful in absurdity. Among 
well-bred fools we may despise much, but have ht- 
tle to laugh at ; nature seems to present us with a 
universal blank of sillt, ribands, smiles, and whis- 
pers. Absurdity is the poet's game, and good- 
breeding is the nice concealment of absurdities. 
The truth is, the critic generally mistakes hu- 
mour for wit, which is a very different excellence. 
Wit raises human nature above its level ; humovtr 
acts a contrary part, and equally depresses it. To 
expect exalted humour is a contradiction in terms ; 
and the critic, by demanding an impossibility from 
the comic poet, has, in effect banished new comedy 
from the stage. But to put the same thought in 
a different light, when an unexpected similitude in 
two objects strikes the imagination ; in other words, 
when a thing is wittily expressed, all our pleasure 
turns into admiration of the artist, who had fancy 
enough to draw the picture. When a thing is 
humorously described, our burst of laughter pro- 
ceeds from a very different cause ; we compare the 
absurdity of the character represented with our own, 
and triumph in our conscious superiority. No na- 
tural defect can be a cause of laughter, because it 
js a misfortune to which ourselves are liable. A 
defect of this kind changes the passion into pity or 
horror. We only laugh at those instances of mo- 
ral absurdity, to which we are conscious we our- 
selves are not liable. For instance, should I de- 



mour in this, as it is an accident to which human 
nature is subject, and may be any man's case : but 
should I represent this man without his nose as 
extremely curious in the choice of his snuff-box, 
we here see him guilty of an absurdity of which 
we imagine it impossible for ourselves to be guilty, 
and therefore applaud our own good sense on the 
comparison. Thus, then, the pleasure we receive 
from wit turns to the admiration of another ; that 
which we feel from humour, centres in the admi- 
ration of ourselves. The poet, therefore, must 
place the object he would have the subject of hu- 
mour in a state of inferiority j in other words, the 
subject of humour must be low. 

The solemnity worn by many of our modern 
writers, is, I fear, often the mask of dulness ; for 
certain it is, it seems to fit every author who pleases 
to put it on. By the complexion of many of our 
late puWications, one might be apt to cry out with 
Cicero, Civem mehercule nan puto esse qui his 
temporibus rider e pass it : on my conscience, I be- 
lieve we have all forgot to laugh in these days. Such 
writers probably make no distinction between what 
is praised and what is pleasing: between those com- 
mendations which the reader pays his own discern- 
ment, and those which are the genuine result of 
his sensations. It were to be wished, therefore, 
that we no longer found pleasure with the inflated 
style that has for some years been looked upon 
as fine writing, and which every young writer is 
now obliged to adopt, if he chooses to be read. We 
should now dispense with loaded epithet and dress- 
ing up trifles with dignity. For, to use an obvi- 
ous instance, it is not those who make the greatest 
noise with their wares in the streets that have most 
to sell. Let us, instead of writing finely, try to 
write naturally ; not hunt after lofty expressions to 
deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping, when 
we only mean to deliver a whisper. 



CHAPTER XI. 

Of the Stage. 
Our theatre has been generally confessed to 
share in this general decline, though partaking of 
the show and decoration of the Italian opera with 
the propriety and declamation of French perform- 
ance. The stage also is more magnificent with us 
than any other in Europe, and the people in gene- 
ral fonder of theatrical entertainment. Yet still, as 
our pleasures, as well as more important concerns, 
are generally managed by party, the stage has felt 
its influence. The managers, and all who espouse 
their side, are for decoration and ornament; the 
critic, and all who have studied French decorum, 
are for regularity and declamation. Thus it is al- 



most impossible to please both parties ; and the po- 
scribe a man as wanting his nose, there is no hu- et, by attempting it, finds himselfoften incapable of 



THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING. 



139 



pleasing either. If he introduces stage pomp, the 
critic consigns his performance to the vulgar; if he 
indulges in recital and simplicity, it is accused of 
insipidity, or dry affectation. 

From the nature, therefore, of our theatre, and 
the genius of our country, it is extremely difficult 
for a dramatic poet to please liis audience. But 
happy would he be, were these the only difficulties 
he had to encounter; there are many other more 
dangerous combinations against the little wit of the 
age. Our poet's performance must undergo a pro- 
cess truly chemical before it is presented to the pub- 
lic. It must be tried in the manager's fire, strain- 
ed through a licenser, suffer from repeated correc- 
tions, till it may be a mere caput mortuum when it 
arrives before the public. 

The success, however, of pieces upon the stage 
would be of little moment, did it not influence the 
success of the same piece in the closet. Nay, I 
think it would be more for the interests of virtue, 
if stage performances were read, not acted ; made 
rather our companions in the cabinet than on the 
theatre. While we are readers, every moral senti- 
ment strUies us in all its beauty, but the love scenes 
are frigid, tawdry, and disgusting. "When we are 
spectators, all the persuasives to vice receive an ad- 
ditional lustre. The love scene is aggravated, the 
obscenity heightened, the best actors figure in the 
most debauched characters, while the parts of mo- 
rality, as they are called, are thrown to some mouth- 
ing machine, who puts even virtue out of counte- 
nance by his wretched imitation. 

But whatever be the incentives to vice which are 
found at the theatre, pubhc pleasures are generally 
less guilty than soUtary ones. To make our soli- 
tary satisfactions truly innocent, the actor is useful, 
as by his means the poet's work makes its way 
from the stage to the closet ; for all must allow, that 
the reader receives more benefit by perusing a well- 
written play, than by seeing it acted. 

But how is this rule inverted on our theatres at 
present! Old pieces are revived, and scarcely any 
new ones admitted. The actor is ever in our eye, 
and the poet seldom permitted to appear; the pub- 
lic are again obliged to ruminate over those hashes 
of absurdity, which were disgusting to our ances- 
tors even in an age of ignorance ; and the stage, in- 
stead of serving the people, is made subservient to 
the interests of avarice. 

We seem to be pretty much in the situation of 
travellers at a Scotch inn ; — vile entertainment is 
served up, complained of, and sent down ; up comes 
worse, and that also is changed; and every change 
makes our wretched cheer more unsavoury. What 
must be done 1 only sit down contented, cry up aD 
that comes before us, and admire even the absurdi- 
ties of Shakspeare. 

Let the reader suspend his censure. I admire 
the beauties of this great father of our stage as 



much as they deserve, but could wish, for the hon- 
our of our country, and for his honour too, that 
many of his scenes were forgotten. A man blind 
of one eye should always be painted in profile. Let 
the spectator, who assists at any of these newly-re- 
vived pieces, only ask himself whether he would 
approve such a performance if written by a modem 
poet? I fear he will find that much of his applause 
proceeds merely from the sound of a name, and an 
empty veneration for antiquity. In fact, the revi- 
val of those pieces of forced humour, far-fetched 
conceit, and unnatural hyperbole, which have been 
ascribed to Shakspeare, is rather gibbeting than 
raising a statue to his memory; it is rather a trick 
to the actor, who thinks it safest acting in exagge- 
rated characters, and who, by outstepping nature, 
chooses to exhibit the ridiculous outre of a harle- 
quin under the sanction of that venerable name. 

What strange vamped comedies, farcical trage- 
dies, or what shall I call them, speaking panto- 
mimes, have we not of late seen? No matter what 
the play may be, it is the actor who draws an audi- 
ence. He throws hfe into all ; all are in spirits and 
merry, in at one door and out at another; the 
spectator, in a fool's paradise, knows not what all 
this means, till the last act concludes in matrimo- 
ny. The piece pleases our critics, because it talks 
old English; and it pleases the galleries, because it 
has ribaldry. True taste or even common sense 
are out of the question. 

But great art must be sometimes used before they 
can thus impose upon the public. To this purpose, 
a prologue written with some spirit generally pre- 
cedes the piece, to inform us that it was composed 
by Shakspeare, or old Ben, or somebody else who 
took them for his model. A face of iron could not 
have the assurance to avow dislike ; the theatre has 
its partisans who understand the force of combina- 
tions, trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands 
and clattering of sticks : and though a man might 
have strength sufficient to overcome a Hon in sin- 
gle combat, he maj' run the risk of being devoured 
by an army of ants. 

I am not insensible, that tliird nights are disa- 
greeable drawbacks upon the annual profits of 
the stage. I am confident it is much more to the 
manager's advantage to furbish up all the lumber 
which the good sense of our ancestors, but for his 
care, had consigned to oblivion. It is not with him, 
therefore, but with the pvibHc I would expostulate; 
they have a right to demand respect, and surely 
those newly-revived plays are no instances of the 
manager's deference. 

I have been informed that no new play can be 
admitted upon our theatres unless the author 
chooses to wait some years, or, to use the phrase in 
fashion, till it comes to be played in turn. A poet 
thus can never expect to contract a famiharity with 
the stage, by which alone he can hope to succeed j 



140 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



nor can the most signal success relieve immediate 
want. Our Saxon ancestors had but one name for 
wit and witch. I will not dispute the propriety of 
uniting those characters then, but the man who, 
under the present discouragements, ventures to 
write for the stage, whatever claim he may have to 
the appellation of a wit, at least he has no right to 
be called a conjuror. 

From all that has been said upon the state of our 
theatre, we may easily foresee whether it is hkely 
to improve or decline; and whether the free-born 
muse can bear to submit to those restrictions which 
avarice or power would impose. For the future, 
it is somewhat unlikely, that he whose labours are 
valuable, or who knows their value, will turn to the 
stage for either fame or subsistence, when he must 
at once flatter an actor and please an audience. 



CHAPTER XII. 



On Universities. 



Instead of losing myself in a subject of such 
extent, I shall only offer a few thoughts as they 
occur, and leave their connexion to the reader. 

We seem divided, whether an education formed 
by travelUng or by a sedentary hfe be preferable. 
We see more of the world by travel, but more of 
human nature by remaining at home; as in an in- 
firmary, the student who only attends to the disor- 
ders of a few patients, is more likely to understand 
his profession than he who indiscriminately exam- 
ines them all. 

A youth just landed at the Brille resembles a 
clown at a puppet-show; carries his amazement 
from one miracle to another; from this cabinet of 
curiosities to that collection of pictures : but won- 
dering is not the way to grow wise. 

Whatever resolutions we set ourselves, not to 
keep company with our countrymen abroad, we 
shall find them broken when once we leave home. 
Among strangers we consider ourselves as in a 
soUtude, and it is but natural to desire society. 

In all the great towns of Europe there are to be 
found Englishmen residing either from interest or 
choice. These generally lead a hfe of continued 
debauchery. Such are the countrymen a traveller 
is likely to meet with. 

This may be the reason why Englishmen are all 
thought to be mad or melancholy by the vulgar 
abroad. Their money is giddily and merrily spent 
among sharpers of their own country ; and when 
that is gone, of all nations the English bear worst 
that disorder called the maladiede poche. 

Countries wear very different appearances to 
travellers of different circumstances. A man who 
is whirled through Europe in a post-chaise, and the 



pilgrim, who walks the grand tour on foot, will 
form very difi!erent conclusions.* 

To see Europe with advantage, a man should 
appear in various circumstances of fortune, but the 
experiment would be too dangerous for young men. 

There are many things relative to other coun- 
tries which can be learned to more advantage at 
home ; their laws and policies are among the 
number. 

The greatest advantages which result to youth 
from travel, are an easy address, the shaking off 
national prejudices, and the finding nothing ridicu- 
lous in national peculiarities. 

The time spent in these acquisitions could have 
been more usefully employed at home. An edu- 
cation in a college seems therefore preferable. 

We attribute to universities either too much or 
too little. Some assert that they are the only 
proper places to advance learning; while others 
deny even their utility in forming an education. 
Both are erroneous. 

Learning is most advanced in populous cities, 
where chance often conspires with industry to pro- 
mote it : where the members of this large univer- 
sity, if I may so call it, catch manners as they rise, 
study life not logic, and have the world for corres- 
pondents. 

The greatest number of universities have ever 
been founded in times of the greatest ignorance. 

New improvements in learning are seldom 
adopted in colleges until admitted every where 
else. And this is right; we should always be 
cautious of teaching the rising generation uncer- 
tainties for truth. Thus, though the professors in 
universities have been too frequently found to op- 
pose the advancement of learning ; yet when once 
established, they are the properest persons to dif- 
fuse it. 

There is more knowledge to be acquired from 
one page of the volume of mankind, if the scholar 
only knows how to read, than in volumes of anti- 
quity. We grow learned, not wise, by too long a 
continuance at college. 

This points out the time at which we should 
leave the university. Perhaps the age of twenty- 
one, when at our universities the first degree is 
generally taken, is the proper period. 

The universities of Europe may be divided into 
three classes. Those upon the old scholastic es- 
tablishment, where the pupils are immured, talk 
nothing but Latin, and support every day syllo- 
gistical disputations in school philosophy. Would 
not one be apt to imagine this was the proper edu- 
cation to make a man a fooH Such are the uni- 
versities of Prague, Louvain, and Padua. The 
second is, where the pupils are under few restric- 



• In the first edition our author added, Hand inexpertus 
loquor; for he traveUed through France etc. on foot. 



THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. 



141 



tions, where all scholastic jargon is banished, where 
they take a degree when they think proper, and 
live not m the college but the city. Such are Ed- 
inburgh, Leyden, Gottingen, Geneva. The third 
is a mixture of the two former, where the pupils are 
i-estrained but not confined ; where many, though 
not all of the absurdities of scholastic philosophy 
are suppressed, and where the firr-t degree is taken 
after four years' matriculation. Such are Oxford, 
Cambridge, and Dublin. 

As for the first class, their absurdities are too ap- 
parent to admit of a parallel. It is disputed which 
of the two last are more conducive to national im- 
provement. 

Skill in the professions is acquired more by prac- 
tice than study; two or three years may be suffi- 
cient for learning their rudiments. The universi- 
ties of Edinburgh, etc. grant a license for practising 
them when the student thinks proper, which our 
universities refuse till after a residence of several 
years. 

The dignity of the professions may be supported 
by this dilatory proceeding ; but many men of learn- 
ing are thus too long excluded from the lucrative 
advantages which superior skill has a right to ex- 
pect. 

Those universities must certainly be most fre- 
quented wMch promise to give in two years the 
advantages which others will not under twelve. 

The man who has studied a profession for three 
years, and practised it for nine more, will certainly 
know more of liis business than he who has only 
studied it for twelve. 

The universities of Edinburgh, etc, must certain- 
ly be most proper for the study of those professions 
in which men choose to turn their learning to pro- 
fit as soon as possible. 

The universities of Oxford, etc. are improper for 
this, since they keep the student from the world, 
which, after a certain time, is the only true school 
of improvement. 

When a degree in the professions can be taken 
only by men of independent fortunes, the number 
of candidates in learning is lessened, and conse- 
quently the advancement of learning retarded. 

This slowness of conferring degrees is a rem- 
nant of scholastic barbarity. Paris, Louvain, and 
those universities which still retain their ancient 
institutions, conier the doctor's degree slower even 
than we. 

The statues of every university should be consi- 
dered as aaapted to the laws of its respective gov- 
enunent. Those should alter as these happen to 
fluctuate. 

Four years spent in the arts (as they are called 
in colleges) is perhaps laying too laborious a foun- 
dation. Entering a profession without any previ- 
ous acquisitions of this kind, is building too bold a 
superstiucture. 



Teaching by lecture, as at Edinburgh, may make 
men scholars, if they think proper; but instructing 
by examination, as at Oxford, will make them so 
often against their inclination. 

Edinburgh only disposes the student to receive 
learning; Oxford often makes him actually learn- 
ed. 

In a word, were I poor, I should send my son to 
Leyden or Edinburgh, though the annual expense 
in each, particularly in the first, is very great. 
"Were 1 rich, I would send him to one of our own 
universities. By an education received in the first^ 
he has the best hkelihood of living; by that receive 
ed in the latter, he has the best chance of becoming 
great. 

We have of late heard much of the necessity of 
studying oratory. Vespasian was the first who 
paid professors of rhetoric for publicly instructing 
youth at Rome. However, those pedants never 
made an orator. 

The best orations that ever were spoken were 
pronounced in the parliaments of King Charles the 
First. These men never studied the rules of ora- 
tory. 

Mathematics are, perhaps, too much studied at 
our universities. This seems a science to which 
the meanest intellects are equal. I forget who it 
is that says, " All men might understand mathe- 
matics if they would.'' 

The most methodical manner of lecturing, whe- 
ther on morals or nature, is first rationally to ex- 
plain, and then produce the experiment. The 
most instructive method is to show the experiment 
first; curiosity is then excited, and attention awa- 
kened to every subsequent deduction. Hence it is 
evident, that in a well formed education a course 
of history should ever precede a course of ethics. 

The sons of our nobility are permitted to enjoy 
greater liberties in our universities than those of 
private men. I should blush to ask the men of 
learning and virtue who preside in our seminaries 
the reason of such a prejudicial distinction. Out 
youth should there be inspired with a love of phi- 
losophy; and the first maxim among philosophers 
is. That merit only makes distinction. 

Whence has proceeded the vain magnificence of 
expensive architecture in our colleges? Is it that 
men study to more advantage in a palace than in a 
cein One single performance of taste or genius 
confers more real honours on its parent university 
than all the labours of the chisel. 

Surely pride itself has dictated to the fellows of 
our colleges the absurd passion of being attended at 
meals, and on other pubUc occasions, by those poor 
men, who, willing to be scholars, come in upon 
some charitable foundation. It implies a contra- 
diction, for men to be at once learning the liberal 
arts, and at the same time treated as slaves ,• at once 
studying freedom, and practising servitude. ^ 



142 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The Conclusion. 

Every subject acquires an adventitious import- 
ance to Hm who considers it with application. He 
finds it more closely connected with human happi- 
ness than the rest of mankind are apt to allow; he 
sees consequences resulting from it which do not 
strike others with equal conviction ; andstill pursuing 
speculation beyond the bounds of reason, too fre- 
quently becomes ridiculously earnest in trifles or 
absurdity. 

It will perhaps be incurring this imputation, to 
deduce a universal degeneracy of manners from so 
slight an origin as the depravation of taste; to as- 
sert that, as a nation grows dull, it sinks into de- 
bauchery. Yet such probably may be the conse- 
quence of hterary decay; or, not to stretch the 
thought beyond what it will bear, vice and stupidity 
are always mutually productive of each other. 

Life, at the greatest and best, has been compared 
to a froward child, that must be humoured and 
played with till it falls asleep, and then all the care 
is over. Our few years are laboured away in va- 
rying its pleasures; new amusements are pursued 
with studious attention; the most childish vanities 
are dignified with titles of importance; and the 
proudest boast of the most aspiring philosopher is 
no more, than that he provides his Httle play-fellows 
the greatest pastime with the greatest innocence. 

Thus the mind, ever wandering after amuse- 
ment, when abridged of happiness on one part, 
endeavours to find it on another; when intellectual 
pleasures are disagreeable, those of sense will take 
the lead. The man who in this age is enamoured 
of the tranquil joys of study and retirement, may 
in the next, should learning be fashionable no long- 
er, feel an ambition of being foremost at a horse- 
course; or, if such could be the absurdity of the 
times, of being himself a jockey. Reason and ap- 
petite are therefore masters of our revels in turn; 
and as we incline to the one, or pursue the other, 
we rival angels, or imitate the brutes. In the pur- 
suit of intellectual pleasure Ues every virtue; of 
sensual, every vice. 



It is this diflference of pursuit which marks the 
morals and characters of mankind; which lays the 
line between the enlightened philosopher and the 
half-taught citizen; between the civil citizen and 
illiterate peasant; between the law-obeying peasant 
and the wandering savage of Africa, an animal less 
mischievous indeed than the tiger, because endued 
with fewer powers of doing mischief. The man, 
the nation, must therefore be good, whose chiefest 
luxuries consist in the refinement of reason; and 
reason can never be universally cultivated, unless 
guided by taste, which may be considered as the 
link between science and common sense, the medi- 
um through which learning should ever be seen by 
society. 

Taste will therefore often be a proper standard, 
when others fail, to judge of a nation's improve- 
ment or degeneracy in morals. We have often no 
permanent characteristics, by which to compare 
the virtues or the vices of our ancestors with our 
own. A generation may rise and pass away with- 
out leaving any traces of what it really was; and 
all complaints of our deterioration may be only 
topics of declamation or the cavilhngs of disappoint- 
ment: but in taste we have standing evidence; we 
can with precision compare the literary performan- 
ces of our fathers with our own, and from their ex- 
cellence or defects determine the moral, as well as 
the literary, merits of either. 

If, then, there ever comes a time when taste is 
so far depraved among us that critics shall load 
every work of genius with unnecessary comment, 
and quarter their empty performances with the 
substantial merits of an author, both for subsistence 
and applause ; if there comes a time when censure 
shall speak in storms, but praise be whispered in 
the breeze, while real excellence often finds ship- 
wreck in either; if there be a time when the Muse 
shall seldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as 
if she wept her own decline, while lazy compilations 
supply the place of original thinking; should there 
ever be such a time, may succeeding critics, both 
for the honour of our morals, as well as our learn- 
ing, say, that such a period bears no resemblance 
to the present age! 



POMM8. 



A PROLOGUE, 

Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Ro- 
onan Knight, whom Ccesar forced upon the 
stage. Preserved by Macrobius* 

What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
Scarce half alive, opprest with many a year, 
What in the name of dotage drives me here? 
A time thel-e was, when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside; 
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear. 
With honest thrift I held my honour dear: 
But this vile hour disperses all my store. 
And all my hoard of honour is no more; 
For ah! too partial to my life's decline, 
Csesar persuades, submission must be mine; 
» Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys. 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inchned to please. 
Here then at once I welcome every shame, 
And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; 
No more my titles shall my children tell. 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well ; 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honour ends. 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION; 

A TALE.t 

Secluded from domestic strife 

Jack Book-worm led a college life; 

A fellowship at twenty-five 

Made him the happiest man alive; 

He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, 

And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 

Such pleasures, unallay'd with care, 
Could any accident impair? 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six? 
O had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town! 



* This translation was first printed in one of our author's 
earliest works. '■ The Present State of Learning in Europe," 
12mo. i; 59 ; but was omitted in the second edition, which ap- 
peared in 1774. 

t This and the following poem were published by Dr. Gold- 
smith in his volume of Essays, which appeared in 1765. 



Or Flavia been content to stop 
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop, 
O had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 

O ! but let exclamations cease. 

Her presence banish' d all his peace. 
So with decorum all things carried; 
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 

Need we expose to vulgar sight 
The raptures of the bridal night? 
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 
Or draw the curtains closed around ? 
Let it suffice, that each had charms; 
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; 
And though she felt his usage rough. 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honey-moon like lightning flew. 
The second brought its transports too; 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss. 
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss t 
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 
Jack found his goddess made of clay; 
Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; 
But still the worse remain'd behind, 
That very face had robb'd her mind. 

Skill'd in no other arts was she, 
But dressing, patching, repartee; 
And, just as humour rose or fell, 
By turns a slattern or a belle. 
'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, 
Half naked at a ball or race; 
But when at home, at board or bed. 
Five greasy night -caps wrapp'd her head. 
Could so much beauty condescend 
To be a dull domestic friend ? 
Could any curtain lectures bring 
To decency so fine a thing ? 
In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; 
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ; 
The 'squire and captain took their stations, 
And twenty other near relations : 
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
A sigh in suftbcating smoke ; 
While all their hours were past between 
Insulting repartee or spleen. 



144 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Thus as her faults each day were known, 
He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
He fancies every vice she shows, 
Or thins her lip, or points her nose : 
Whenever age or envy rise, 
How wide her mouth', how wild her eyes ! 
He knows not how, but so it is, 
Her face is growTi a knowing phiz ; 
And though her fops are wondrous civil, 
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
As each a different way pursues. 
While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promised to hold them on for life, 
That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
Withers the beauty's transient flower : — 
Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare 
Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 
And, rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
Reflected now a perfect fright : 
Each former art she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes; 
In vain she tries her paste and creams. 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams : 
Her country beaux and city cousins. 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; 
The 'squire himself was seen to yield. 
And even the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
Perceiving others fairly flown. 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old : 
With modesty her cheeks are dyed, 
Humility displaces pri;3e; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean ; 
No more presuming on her sway. 
She learns good nature every day : 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty. 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



A NEW SIMILE 

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 

Long had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind : 
The modern scribbling kind, who write, 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite: 
Till reading, I forget what day on, 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there 
To suit my purpose to a hair. 



But let us not proceed too furious. 
First please to turn to god Mercurius 
You'll find him pictured at full length, 
In book the second, page the tenth : 
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay. 
And now proceed we to our simile. 

Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, 
Wings upon either side — mark that. 
Well ! what is it from thence we gather! 
Why these denote a brain of feather. 
A brain of feather ! very right. 
With wit that's flighty, learning light; 
Such as to modern bards decreed; 
A just comparison, — ^proceed. 

In the next place, his feet peruse. 
Wings grow again from both his shoes; 
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
And waft his godship through the air : 
And here my simile unites. 
For in the modern poet's flights, 
I'm sure it may be justly said. 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, 
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; 
By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
And highly famed for several uses. 
To wit — most wondrously endued, 
No poppy water half so good ; 
For let folks only get a touch, 
Its soporific virtue's such. 
Though ne'er so much awake before, 
That quickly they begin to snore. 
Add too, what certain writers tell. 
With this he drives men's souls to hell. 

Now to apply, begin we then ; — 
His wand's a modern author's pen; 
The serpents round about it twined, 
Denote him of the reptile kind ; 
Denote the rage with which he writes, 
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites; 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Ahke too both conduce to sleep. 
This difference only, as the god 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod. 
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, 
Instead of others, damns himself. 

And here my simile almost tript, 
Yet grant a word by way of postcript. 
Moreover Merc'ry had a failing ; 
Well! what of that? out with it — stealing; 
In which all modern bards agree. 
Being each as great a thief as he 
But even this deity's existence 
Shall lend my simile assistance. 
Our modern bards ! why what a pox 
Are they but senseless stones and blocks'? 



POEMS. 



145 



DESCRIPTION 



AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. 

Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham- 
pagne, 
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; 
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. 
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; 
A ■window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray. 
That dimly show'dthe state in which he lay; 
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; 
The royal game of goose was there in view. 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; 
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place. 
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black 

face. 
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored. 
And five crack' d tea-cups dress' d the chimney- 
board ; 
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
A cap by night — a stocking all the day! 



THE HERMIT. 

A BALLAD. 



Thefollowing letter, addressed to the Printer of 
he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that pa- 
per in June, 1767. 

Sir, 

As there is nothing I disUke so much as news- 
paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit 
me to be as concise as possible in informing a cor- 
respondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's 
Travels because I thought the book was a good 
one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the 
bookseller that it was then first published; but in 
that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading 
was not extensive enough to set me right. 

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of 
having taken a ballad I pubUshed some time ago, 
from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not 
think there is any great resemblance between the 
two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad 
is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some 
years ago; and he (as we both considered these 



* The Friar of Orders Gray. " Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. 
lbook2. No. 18. 

10 



things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good- 
hmnour, the next time I saw him, that he had 
taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare 
into a ballad of his own. He then read me his lit- 
tle Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv- 
ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely 
worth printing ; and, were it not for the busy dis- 
position of some of your correspondents, the pub- 
lic should never have known that he owes me the 
hint of his ballad, or that I am obhged to his friend- 
ship and learning for communications of a much 
more important nature, 
lam, Sir, 

Yours, etc. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

Note. — On the subject of the preceding letter, 
the reader is desired to consult " The Life of Dr. 
Goldsmith," under the year 1765. 

THE HERMIT; 



" Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale. 

And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

"For here forlorn and lost I tread. 
With fainting steps and slow; 

Where wilds immeasurably spread, 
Seem length'ning as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
To tempt the dangerous gloom; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

" Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

" Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows. 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

" No flocks that range the valley free. 

To slaughter I condemn; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them: 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring. 

" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong; 
Man wants but httle here below. 

Nor wants that little long." 



146 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care; 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest. 
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 

And cheer' d his pensive guest: 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gaily prcss'd, and smiled; 

And, skill' d in legendary lore, 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around in sympathetic mirth 

Its tricks thelcitten tries. 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth. 

The crackling faggot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied. 
With answering care opprest; 

" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
"The sorrows of thy breast "? 

"From better habitations spurn'd. 

Reluctant dost thou rove? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. 

Or unregarded level 

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings, 

Are trifling and decay; 
And those who prize the paltry things. 

More trifling still than they. 

"And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame. 

But leaves the vsrretch to weep'? 

" And love is still an emptier sound. 

The modern fair one's jest; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex," he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray' d. 



Surprised he sees new beauties rise. 

Swift manthng to the view : 
Lilie colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 

" And ah! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn," she cried; 

"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where Heaven and you reside. 

" But let a maid thy pity share. 
Whom love has taught to stray; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

" My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 

He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber'd suitors came; 
Who praised me for imparted charms, 

And felt, or feign' d a flame. 

" Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd. 
But never talk'd of love. 

" In humble, simplest habit clad. 
No wealth nor power had he; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had. 
But these were all to me. 

" And when, beside me in the dale, 

He carroU'd lays of love. 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 

And music to the grove. 

" The blossom opening to the day, 
The dews of Heaven refined. 

Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
With charms inconstant shine; 

Their charms were his, but, woe to me! 
Their constancy was mine. 

" For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph' d in his pain: 

" Till quite dejected with my scorn. 

He left me to my pride; 
And sought a soUtude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 



POEMS. 



147 



" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I." 

" Forbid it. Heaven !" the Hermit cried. 
And clasp' d her to his breast : 

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide- 
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. 

" Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — ^my all that's mine? 

" No, never from this hour to part. 

We'll Uve and love so true; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart. 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." 



AN ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OP A MAD DOG.* 

CrOOD people all of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 
And if you find it wondrous short. 

It can not hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran. 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 
To comfort friends and foes; 

The naked every day he clad, 
When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town, a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be. 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But when a pique began. 
The dog, to gain some private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighb'ring streets 
The wond'ring neighbours ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits. 
To bite so good a man. 



The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye; 
And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they lied : 

The man recover'd of the bite, 
The dog it was that died. 



STANZAS ON WOMAN. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly. 
And finds too late that men betray. 

What charms can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover. 
To hide her shame from every eye. 

To give repentance to her lover. 
And wring his bosom — is to die. 



THE TRAVELLER; 

OR, 

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 



• This, and the following poem, appeared in "The Vicar of 
Wakefield," which was published in tlie year 1765. 



TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 

Dear Sir, 

I AM sensible that the friendship between us can 
acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedi- 
cation ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to 
prefix your name to my attempts, which you de- 
cUne giving with your own. But as a part of this 
poem was fonnerly written to you from Switzer- 
land, the whole can now, with propriety, be only 
inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon 
many parts of it, when the reader understands, that 
it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and 
fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscuri- 
ty, with an income of forty pounds a-year. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of 
your humble choice. You have entered upon a 
sacred ofllice, where the harvest is great, and the 
labourers are but few; while you have left the field 
of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the 
harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds 
of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, 
from different systems of criticism, and from the 
divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame 
is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among un- 
polished nations ; but in a country verging to the 
extremes of refinement, painting and music come 
in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a 
less laborious entertainment, they at first rival 



148 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



poetry, and at length supplant her ; they engross all 
that favour once shown to her, and though but 
younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the 
powerful, it is still in great danger from the mis- 
taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What 
criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of 
blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests 
and iambics, alliterative care and happy negUgence! 
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; 
and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he 
has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. 

But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- 
gerous, — I mean party. Party entirely distorts 
the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the 
mind is once infected with this disease, it can only 
find pleasure in what contributes to increase the 
distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from 
pursuing man, after having once preyed upon hu- 
man flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his 
appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most 
agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such 
readers generally admire some half-witted thing, 
who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost 
the character of a wise one. Him they dignify 
with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are 
called satires ; his turbulence is said to be force, and 
his phrensy fire. 

What reception a poem may find, which has 
neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, 
I can not tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My 
aims are right. Without espousing the cause of 
any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage 
of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may 
be equal happiness in states that are differently 
governed from our own ; that every state has a par- 
ticular principle of happiness, and that this princi- 
ple in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. 
There are few can judge better than yourself how 
far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I 
am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE TRAVELLER; 



A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.' 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies; 



* In this poem, as it passed througli different editions, seve- 
ral alterations were made, and some additional verses intro- 
duced. We have followed the ninth edition, which was the 
last that appeared in the lifetime of the author. 



Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view| 
That, Uke the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And placed on high above the storm's career, 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear ; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine 1 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all maidiind. 
Ye guttering towns, with wealth and splendour 

crown'd; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion roimd; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 
plies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happmess consign'd, 



POEMS. 



149 



Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, 
May gather Wiss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know 1 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
The naked negro, panting at the line. 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
And estimate the blessings which they share. 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given. 
To different nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky crested summits frown. 
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent — 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive to the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails. 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the favourite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
Till, carried to excess in each domain, 
This favourite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies; 
Here for a while my proper cares resign' d, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; , 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right where Appenine ascends, 
Bricrlit as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side. 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 



Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the 

state ; 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise. 
Again the long- fall' n column sought the skies; 
The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; 
While nought remain' d of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalceide; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
The sports of children satisfy the child ; 
Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
As in those domes, where Cassars once bore sway, 
Defaced by time and tottering in decay. 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile. 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread. 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread 
No product here the barrep hills afford. 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter hngering chills the lap of May; 



150 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm. 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though 

small. 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labour sped. 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze: 
Wliile his loved partner, boastful of her hoard. 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board: 
And haply too some pilgrim thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart. 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise 
Enhance the bhss his scanty funds supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. 
Yet let them only share the praises due, 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
For every want that stimulates the breast. 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest; 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unkno\vn those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a-year. 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; 



For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Un alter' d, unimproved the manners run; 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the 

way, 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn; and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir. 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display. 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear; 
For honour forms the social temper here. 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traflic round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem. 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought. 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws. 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land 



THE TRAVELLER. 



151 



And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-hlossom'd vale. 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil. 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here display' d. Their much loved wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts : 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
E'en hberty itself is barter'd here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. 
And, calmly bent, to, -servitude conform. 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens! how unlilie their Belgic sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow — 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined. 
Extremes are only in the master's mind! 
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state 
With daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand. 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right, above control. 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan. 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here. 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy, 
But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high. 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; 



The self-dependent lordUngs stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore, 
Till, over-wrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or phrensy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to thee alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : 
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonoui'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel j 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun. 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
I only would repress them to secure : 
For just experience tells, in every soil. 
That those that think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion' d loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion' d grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

O then how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
Except when fast-approaching danger warms ; 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse me with that baleful hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
And thus polluting honour in its source. 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 



152 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they wastel 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields virhere scatter'd hamlets rose, 
In barren soUtary pomp repose? 
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train. 
To traverse climes beyond the western main; 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around. 
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous 

ways; 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies. 
And all around distressful yells arise. 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids Ids bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind: 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
GUdes the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel. 
To men remote from power but rarely known. 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE; 

A POEM. 
TO DR. GOLDSMITH, 

AUTHOR OF THE DESERTED VILLAGE, BY MISS AIKIN, 
AFTERWARDS MRS. BARBAULD. 

In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains: 
She moves our envy who so well complains : 
In vain hath proud oppression laid her low ; 
She wears a garland on her faded brow. 



Now Auburn, now, absolve impartial Fate, 
Which, if it makes thee wretched, makes thee great 
So unobserved, some humble plant may bloom. 
Till crush'd it fills the air with sweet perfume ; 
So had thy swains in ease and plenty slept, 
The poet had not sung, nor Britain wept. 
Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay, 
Unhonour'd genius, and her swift decay : 
O, patron of the poor! it can not be. 
While one — one poet yet remains like thee. 
Nor can the Muse desert our favour'd isle. 
Till thou desert the Muse, and scorn her smile. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

Dear Sir, 

I CAN have no expectations, in an address of this 
kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish 
my own. You can gain nothing from my admira- 
tion, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are 
said to excel ; and 1 may lose much by the severity 
of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in 
poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, 
to which I never paid much attention, I must be 
indulged at present in following my affections. 
The only dedication I ever made was to my bro- 
ther, because I loved him better than most other 
men. He is siuce dead. Permit me to inscribe 
this Poem to you. 

How far you may be pleased with the versifica- 
tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I 
do not pretend to inqmre ; but I know you will ob- 
ject (and indeed several of our best and wisest 
friends concur in the opinion,) that the depopu- 
lation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis- 
orders it laments are only to be found in the poet's 
own imagination. To this I can scarcely make any 
other answer than that I sincerely beheve what I 
have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, 
in my countiy excursions, for these four or five 
years past, to be certain of what I alledge; and that 
all my views and inquiries have led me to believe 
those miseries real, which I here attempt to dis- 
play. But this is not the place to enter into an in- 
quiry, whether the country be depopulating or not ; 
the discussion would take up much room, and I 
should prove myself, at best, an indiflferent politi- 
cian, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I 
want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, 1 
inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and 
here also I expect the shout of modern poUticians 
against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it 
has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of 
the greatest national advantages; and all the wis- 
dom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous. 
Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient 
on that head, and continue to think those luxuries 



POEMS. 



153 



prejudicial to states by which so many vices are in- 
troduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. 
Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the 
other side of the question, that, merely for the sake 
of novelty and variety, one would sometimes vsdsh 
to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, your sincere 
friend, and ardent admirer, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE 

DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer' d the labouring 

swain, 
Where smiling spring its earUest visit paid, 
And parting summer's hngering blooms delay'd: 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. 
How often have 1 loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made! 
How often have I blest the coming day. 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
And all the village train from labour free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
The young contending as the old survey'd; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round; 
And still as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 
By holding out to tire each other down; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter' d round the place; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like 

these. 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

shed, 
These were thy charms — ^but all these charms are 

ilCd. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tiUage stints thy smiling plain ; 



No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a soUtary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade : 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 

A time there was. ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain' d its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
His best companions, innocence and health, 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altefd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene, 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; 
These, far daparting, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 



154 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades hke these, 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly 7 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung; 
The sober herd tliat low'd to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering 

wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-Avay tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled ; 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy pring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the arden smil'd. 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village pi'cacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'erhad chang'd, nor wish'd t change his place; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fasliion'd to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learn' d to prize. 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long remember'd beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 



The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proUd, 
Claim'd Idndred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man leam'd to 

glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay' d, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last fait' ring accents whisper' d praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn' d the venerable place; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoflf, remain' d to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's 

smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliflT that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
The village master taught his little school: 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; '' 
V/ell had the boding tremblers leam'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd- 



POEMS. 



155 



Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault; 
The village all declared how much he knew, 
•Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge: 
In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, 
For e'en though vanquish' d, he could argue still; 
While words of learned length, and thund'ring 

sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, — 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph' d, is forgot.— 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
. Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired, 
Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired. 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
The hearth, except when winter chill' d the day. 
With aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay, 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, ghsten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendours! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
ii,n hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair. 
To svsreet oblivion of his daily care; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train. 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art: 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and own their first-born sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. 



In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : 
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy "? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the lu. ;ts stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,. 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name. 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds: 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their 

growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all 
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms are frai^ 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd; 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd. 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiUng land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
He drives Ids flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare- worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — What waits him therel 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 



156 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- 
play, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowns the blazing square. 
The ratthng chariots clash, the torches glare, 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! 
Sure these denote one universal joy! 
Are these thy serious thoughts']— Ah, turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel and robes of country brovra. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! 

Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Aitama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 

crown' d 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Minghng the ravaged landscape with the skies, 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that part- 
ing day 
That cali'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last. 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 



And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Return' d and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
The good old sire, the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
But for himself in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
While her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
How do thy potions with insidious joy, 
DiflTuse their pleasures only to destroy! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own ; 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin romid. 

E'en now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land, 
Down where yon anchoring vessels spreads the sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness are there; 
And piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 
Unfit in those degenerate times of shame. 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st nie so; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; 
Aid, slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain. 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest; 



POEMS. 



157 



That trade's proud erripire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THE GIFT. 

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. 

Say, cruel Iris, pretty ralce. 

Dear mercenary beauty. 
What annual offering shall 1 make 

Expressive of my duty 1 

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 

Should I at once dehver, 
Say, would the angry fair one prize 

The gift, who slights the giver 1 

A bill, a jewel, watch or toy, 

My rivals give — and let 'em ; 
If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 

I'll give them — when I get 'em, 

I'll give — but not the full-blown rose. 

Or rose-bud more in fashion : 
Such short-Uved offerings but disclose 

A transitory passion. 

I'll give thee something yet unpaid. 

Not less sincere, than civil : 
I'll give thee — ah! too charming maid, 

I'll give thee — to the devil. 



EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle PARNELL'sname, 
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 
That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry 

way! 
Celestial themes confess' d his tuneful aid; 
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 
The transitory breath of fame below . 
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 
While converts thank their poet in the skies. 



EPILOGUE 

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. 

What 1 five long acts — and all to make us wiser? 
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
Had she consulted me, she should have made 
Her moral play a speaking masquerade; 
Warm'd up each bustUng scene, and in her rage 
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 



My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking 
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of 

thinking : 
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
What if I give a masquerade ? — I wUl. 
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] — I've got 

my cue; 
The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, 

you, you. 

[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses 
False wits, false wiv*:s, false virgins, and false 

spouses ! 
Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em, 
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em. 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore : 
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. 
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure : 
Thus 'tis with all — ^their chief and constant care 
Is to seem every thing — but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion; 
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round 

parade. 
Looking, as who should say, dam'me ! who's afraid? 

[Mimicking. 

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am 

You'll find his lionship a very lamb. 

Yon politician, famous in debate, 

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; 

Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume, 

He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 

Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight. 

And seems, to every gazer, all in white. 

If with a bribe his candour you attack, 

He bows, turns round, and whip — the man in 

black! 

Yon critic, toa — but whither do I run? 
If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
Well then a truce, since she requests it too : 
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you. 



EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MRS, BXJLKLEY AND MISS CATLEY, 

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, wlio courtesies very low as beginning 
to speak. Tlien enter Miss Catley, who stands full before 
her, and courtesies to the Audience. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your busi- 
ness here ? 



158 



OLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



MISS CATLEY. 



MRS. BULKLEY. 



The Epilogue. 
The Epilogue 7 

MISS CATLEY. 

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, /bring it. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. 

Recitative. 
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
Suspend your conversation while I sing. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue 

of singing, 
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning 
Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette. 

MISS CATLEY. 

What if we leave it to the house 1 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

The house ! — Agreed. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Agreed. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

And she whose party's largest shall proceed. 
And first, I hope you'll readily agree 
I've all the critics and the wits for me ; 
They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. 
What ! no return 1 I find too late, 1 fear. 
That modern judges seldom enter here. 

MISS CATLEY. 

I'm for a different set. — Old men whose trade is 
StUl to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 

Recitative. 
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, 
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. 
Air— Cotillon. 
Turn my fairest, turn, if ever 
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye, 
Pity take on your swain so clever. 
Who without your aid must die. 

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, 
Yes, I shall die, ho, ho, ho, ho. 

Da capo. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; 

Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 

Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train. 

Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain. 

Who take a trip to Paris once a-year 

To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here; 

Lend me your hands. — O fatal news to tell. 

Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed ! 
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the 
Tweed, 



Where are the chielsl Ah! Ah, I well discern 
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 

Air — A bonny young lad is my Jockey. 
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 
And be unco merry when you are but gay j 
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 
My voice shall be ready to carol away 

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit. 
Make but of all your fortune one va toute : 
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 

I hold the odds. — Done, done, with you, with you."' 
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
" My lord, — Your lordship misconceives the case." 
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, 
" I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :" 
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,. , 
Come end the contest here, and aid my party. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Air — Ballinamony. 
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, 
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack ; 
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack^ 
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
For you're always polite and attentive, 
Still to amuse us inventive. 
And death is your only preventive : 
Your hands and your voices for me; 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring. 
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarringl 

MISS CATLEY. 

And that our friendship may remain unbroken. 
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken? 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

Agreed. 

MISS CATLEY. 

Agreed. 

MRS. BULKLEY. 

And now with late repentance, 
Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence. 
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit 
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 

[Exeunt. 



AN EPILOGUE, 

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 

There is a place, so Ariosto sings, 
A treasury for lost and missing things : 
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, 
And they who lose their senses, there may find them. 
But Where's this place, this storehouse of the agel 
The Moon, says he ;— but I affirm, the Stage : 
At least in many things, I think, I see 
His lunar, and our mimic world agree. 



POEMS. 



159 



Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. 
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 
And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
But in this parallel my best pretence is. 
That mortals visit both to find their senses ; 
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits. 
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day. 
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
Hither the affected city dame advancing, 
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, 
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, 
€luits the hallet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, 
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
The Mohawk too — with angry phrases stored. 
As " Dam'me, sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword ;" 
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
Here comes the sons of scandal and of news. 
But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser. 
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
Has he not seen how you your favour place 
On sentimental queens and lords in lace? 
Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? 
No high-life scenes, no sentiment : — the creature 
Still stoops among the low to copy nature. 
Yes, he's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, 
The Enghsh laws forbid to punish lunatics.* 



HAUNCH OF VENISON; 

A POETrCAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce 

help regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: 
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view. 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show; 
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They'das soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 



"This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. 
Percy (late Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was 
intended is not remembered. 



But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pro- 
nounce. 
This tale of f he bacon's a damnable bounce? 
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 

But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, 
It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* 
To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; 
Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Mon- 
roe's: 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
With the how, and the who, and the where, and 

the when. 
There's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— ff, 
I think they love venison — I know they love beef. 
There's my countryman, Higgins — Oh ! let him 

alone 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton is a very good treat; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. 
It's like sending them rufl[ies, when wanting a shirt. 
While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en- 

ter'd; 
An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he, 
And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. 
"What have we got here? — Why this is good 

eating ! 
Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" 
" Why whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce; 
" I get these things often" — but that was a bounce: 
" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the na- 
tion. 
Are pleased to be kind — ^but I hate ostentation." 

" If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 
" I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; 
No words — I insist on't — precisely at three; 
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will 

be there; 

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! 
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
What say you — a pasty? it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end : 
No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear 

friend!" 
Thus snatching his hat, hebrush'd off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables followed behind. 



* Lord Clare's nephew 



160 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman 

hasty. 
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
"Were things that I never disliked in my life. 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 
When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,) 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite 

dumb. 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not 

come; 
"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail. 
The one with his speeches, and t' other with 

Thrale; 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you : 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; 
Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge." 
While thus he described them by trade and by 

name, 
They enter' d, and dinner v/as served as they came. 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen. 
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made 

hot; 
In the middle a place were the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound. 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
But what vex'd me most was that d d Scottish 

rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his 

brogue, 
And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my 

poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst. 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
" The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate 

cheek, 
" I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eatsnothingat all.' 
"O— ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a 

trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; 
There's a pasty" — "A pasty!" repeated the Jew, 
" I don't care if I keep a corner for'ttoo." 



' What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot, 
' Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
' We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; 
' We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. 
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay' d, 
With looks that quite petrified, enter' d the maid: 
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake 

her"? 
That she came with some terrible news from the 

baker : 

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced 
To send such good verses to one of your taste; 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning, 
A relish — a taste — sicken' d over by learning; 
At least, it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own: 
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinldng amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. 



SONG. 

The wretch condemn'd with hfe to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart. 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 
Adorns and cheers the vray; 

And still, as darker grows the night. 
Emits a brighter ray. 



SONG. 

O Memory! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever. 

And turning all the past to pain: 

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the veretch's woe; 

And he who wants each other blessing. 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness, 
Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.— 12mo, 
1769. 



THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 

John Trott was desired by two witty peer^ 
To tell them the reason why asses had eaisj 



POEMS. 



161 



" An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to 

letters, 
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; 
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces. 
As I hope to be saved ! without thinking on asses." 
Edinburgh, 1753. 



EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 



Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed. 
Who long was a bookseller's hack ; 

He led such a damnable life in this world, 
I don't think he'll wish to come back. 



RETALIATION; 

A POEM. 

[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined 
at the St. James's CofTee-house. — One day it was proposed to 
write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, 
furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Re- 
taliation, and at their next meeting produced the following 
poem.] 



AN ELEGY 

ON THE GLORY OP HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE 

Good people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word, — 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door, 

And always found her kind; 
She freely lent to all the poor, — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighbourhood to please 
With manners wondrous winning; 

And never follow'd wicked ways, — 

Unless when she was sinning ,,^ 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size; 
She never slumber'd in her pew, — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more; 
The king himself has follow'd her, — 

When she has walk'd before. 

But now her wealth and finery fled. 

Her hangers-on cut short all; 
The doctors found, when she was dead, — 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 

For Kent-street well may say. 
That had she lived a twelvemonth more, — 

She had not died to-day. 



Of old, when Scarron his companions invited. 
Each guest brought Ms dish, and the feast was 

united; - 

If our landlord* supplies us with beef, and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himselfj and he brings the 

best dish ; 
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the 

plains; 
Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of 

brains ; 
O'jr Will§ shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, 
And Dickll with his pepper shall heighten the sa- 
vour; 
Our Cumberland's^ sweet-bread its place shall 

obtain. 
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain; 
/ "Our Garrick'stt a sallad ; for in him we see 
\ Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am. 
That Ridgett is anchovy, and Reynolds§§ is lamb; 
That Hickey'slill a capon, and by the same rule, 
^ (Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast. 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 



This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; 
but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. 
Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, 
and became a scribbler in the newspapers He translated 
Voltaire's Henriade. 
11 



* The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the 
doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, oc- 
casionally dined. 

t Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. 

X The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

§ Mr. WiUiam Burke, late secretary to General Conway, 
and member for Bedwin. 

n Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada. 

T^Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of " The West Indian." 
"Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other 
productions. 

* " Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of 
Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less dis- 
tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound 
critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forge- 
ries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and 
Bower's History of the Popes. 

1t David Garrick. Esq. 

tl Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the 
L-ish bar. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
An eminent attorney. 



162 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
lere lies our good Edmund,t whose genius was 
such. 

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend him a 

vote: 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refin- 
ing, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining : 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit. 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, § whose heart was a 

mint. 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that 

was in' t; 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were 

his own. 

Here lies honest Richard,! I whose fate I must' 
sigh at; 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet? 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 

Nick; 

But missing his mirth and agreeable vein. 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; 



* Doctor Bernard. 

tThe Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

J Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. 

§ Mr. William Burke. 

II Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman 
having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different 
times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind 
(Of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. 



A flattering painter, who made it his care 

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 

And comedy wonders at being so fine; 

Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 

Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 

Of virtues and feeUng, that folly grows proud; 

And coxcombs, alilce in their failings alone. 

Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own 5 

Say, where has our poet this malady caught. 

Or, wherefore his characters thus without faultl 

Say, was it that vainly directing his view 

To find out men's virtues, and finding them feWj. 

Gluite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks; ■ 
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines', 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant 

reclines: 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; 
But now he is f;one, and we want a detector, 
Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall 

lecture ; 
Macphcrsont write bombast, and call it a style, 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com- 
pile: 
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross 

over. 
No countryman living their tricks to discover 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the 
dark. 

*' Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way. 
He turned and he varied full ten times a-day : 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle 
them back. 



' The Rev. Dr. Dodd. 

t Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under 
the title of " The School of Shakspeare." 

t James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force 
of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 



POEMS. 



163 



Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow' d what came, 
j A:adL. the puiFof a dunce, he mistook it for fame; 
/ Till his reUsh, grown callous almost to disease, 
I Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please. 
I But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
I If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
I Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave, 
? "What a commerce was yours, while you got and 
you gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 

raised. 
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be- 

praised ! 
But peace to his spirit wherever it flies. 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, 
I Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, 
I Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with 
love, 
|nd Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.t 

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant 
creature. 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he rehsh'd a bumper. 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you ma3{ ask if the man was a miser? 
I answer no, no, for he always was wiser. 



* Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the 
Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, etc. etc. 

t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 

J The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some mea- 
sure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith in 
respect to that gentleman. 

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE. 
Here Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar "was mellow. 
Go fetch me some clay — I will make an oddfellow ! 
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, — much gold and some 

dross ; 
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross ; 
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions, 
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions; 
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, 
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking. 
With the love of a wench let his writings be chaste ; 
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste ; 
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail. 
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail : 
For the joy of each sex, on the world ru bestow it, 
This scholar, rake. Christian, dupe, gamester, 3.X1A poet ; 
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, 
And among brother mortals — be Goldsmith his name ; 
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, 
You, Hermes, shall fetch him — to make us sport here. 

ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL 
COOKERY. 

A JEU D'ESPRIT. 

Are these the choice dishes the doctor has sent us? 
Is this the great poet whose works so content us 1 
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books'? 
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks. 



Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flatl 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go. 
And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no! 
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye : 
He was, could he help it? a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, * 
He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
Still born to improve us in every part. 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When'ihey judged without skill, he was still hard 

of hearing : 
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, 

and stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. ,;; 



POSTSCRIPT. 

After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the pub- 
lisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,t 
from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can. 
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :t 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun; 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; 
Who scatter' d around wit and humour at will; 
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar;" 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit. 
Yet happy if Woodfall§ confess'd him a wit. 

Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed Ms jokes ; 
Ye tame imitators, j^e servile herd, come. 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb . 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, - 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the 
press.W 



* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be un- 
der the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. 

t Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 

J Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith 
used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without 
being infected with the itch of punning. 

§ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Adveniser. 

I Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town withhu- 
morous pieces imder those titles in the Public Advertiser. 



164 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I ad- 
mit 
That a Scot riiay have humour, I had almost said 

wit. 
This dfeW to thy mem'ry I can not refuse, 
" Thou best humour'd man with the worst hu- 
mour'd Muse." 

SONG: 

INTENi)Et) TO HATE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF 

SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.* 
Ah me! when shall I marry me? 

Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me. 
He, fond youth, that could carry me. 

Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 

Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. 

She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 



PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE; 
A TRAGEDY: 

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, Esa. ACTED AT THE 
THEATRE-ROVAL, COVENT GARDEN, MnCCLXXII. 
SPOKEN BY MR. aUICK. 

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
The distant climates, and the savage shore; 
When wise astronomers to India steer, 
And quit for Venus many a brighter here; 
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 
Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling; 
Our bard into the general spirit enters, 
And fits his little frigate for adventures. 
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden. 
He this way steers his coarse, in hopes of trading — 
Yet eie he lands he's order'd me before. 
To make an observation on the shore. 
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! 
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under! 
Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: 

[Upper Gallery. 



There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 

'em — 

X [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em 

[Balconies 
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound — 

[Stage. 
And apples, bitter apples strew the groxmd : 

[Tasting them. 
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : 
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
O, there the people are — ^best keep my distance : 
Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance ; 
Our ship's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid 

her. 
His honour is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventure, lend him aid. 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from 

far. 
Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
What, no reply to promises so ample? 
I'd best step back — and order up a sample. 



* SIR — I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold- 
smith, which has never been published, and which might per- 
haps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended 
it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi- 
rable comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer," butit was left out, 
as Mrs. Bulldey, who played the part, did not sing. He sung 
it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a 
pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to 
whicli, he told me, he foimd it very difficult to adapt words 
but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I 
could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to 
give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, 
and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending 
that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his 
own hand-writing, with an affectionate care. 

I am, Sir, yoiu- humble servant, 
James Boswell, 



EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OP 
HARLEaUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT 

Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your non- 
sense : 

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 

My pride forbids it ever should be said, 

My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; 

That I found humour in a piebald vest. 

Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 

[Takes off his mask. 

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? 

Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth ; 

In thy black aspect every passion sleeps. 

The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 

How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood 

Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued ! 

Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 

"Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 

Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 

And from above the dangling deities ; 

And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ? 

May rosin'd lightnin? blast me if [ do ! 

No — I will act, I'll vindicate the stage : 

Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 

Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! 

The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 

Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme : 

Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — 
soft — 'twas but a dream. 

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat- 
ing. 

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 

'Twas thus that ,Sisop's stag, a creature blameless, 

Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, 



POEMS. 



165 



Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 

And cavili'd at his image in the flood. 

" The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick 
shanks, 

They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 

They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead! 

But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head. 

How piercing is that eye, how sleek that brow ! 

My horns ! — I'm told horns are the fashion now." 

Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, 

JN"ear, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen 
drew; 

Hoicks ! hark forward ! came thund'ring from be- 
hind, 

He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : 

He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 

He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. 

At length, his silly head, so prized before, 

Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 

Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 

And at one bound he saves himself, lilce me. 

[Taking a jump through the stage door. 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED, 

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 

Logicians have but ill defined 

As rational the human mind ; 

Reason, they say, belongs to man. 

But let them prove it if they can. 

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 

By ratiocinations specious. 

Have strove to prove with great precision, 

With definition and division. 

Homo est ratione proiditum ; 

But for my soul I can not credit 'em ; 

And must in spite of them maintain. 

That man and all his ways are vain ; 

And that this boasted lord of nature 

Is both a weak and erring creature. 

That instinct is a surer guide. 

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; 

And that brute beasts are far before 'em, 

Deus est anima hrutorum. 

Who ever knew an honest brute 

At law his neighbour prosecute. 

Bring action for assault and battery. 

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery % 

O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd, 

No politics disturb thejr mind ; 

They eat their meals, and take their sport, 

Nor know who's in or out at court ; 

They never to the levee go. 

To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; 

They never importune his grace. 

Nor ever cringe to men in place 

Nor undertalce a dirty job. 

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob : 

Fraught with invective they ne'er go 

To folks at Pater-Noster Row ; 



No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 
No pickpockets or poetasters, 
Are known to honest quadrupeds, 
No single brute his fellow leads. 
Brutes never meet in bloody fray 
Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
Of beasts, it is confest, the ape 
Comes nearest us in human shape : 
Lilie man he imitates each fashion, 
And malice is his ruling passion; 
But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humbly cringing wait 
Upon the minister of state ; 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air. 
And to perform takes equal care. 
He in his turn finds imitators : 
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
Their masters' manners still contract. 
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act. 
Thus at the court, both great and small 
Behave alike, for all ape all. 



STANZAS 

ON THK TAKING OF aUEBEC. 

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, 
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice. 
And quells the raptures which from pleasure 
start 

O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear j 
CLuebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart- wrung teaf . 
AUve, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : 
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! 

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 



ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH 

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd, 
Rather in pity, than in hate, 

That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 
To save him from Narcissus' fate. 

A SONNET 
Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 

Lost to every gay delight; 
Myra, too sincere for feigning. 

Fears tli' approaching bridal night. 

Yet why impair thy bright perfection 1 
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 

Had Myra follow'd my direction, 
She long had wanted cause of fear. 



Tmi mi(Sim^jL'mmm mmi 



AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN 



PREFACE. 

When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess 
I was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets 
of the last age, and strove to imitate them. The 
term, genteel comedy, was then unknown amongst 
us, and little more was desired by an audience, 
than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life 
they were most conspicuous. The author of the 
following scenes never imagined that more would be 
expected of him, and therefore to delineate charac- 
ter has been his principal aim. Those who know 
any thing of composition, are sensible that, in pur- 
suing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the 
recesses of the mean; I was even tempted to look 
for it in the master of a spunging-house; but in 
deference to the pubUc taste, grown of late, per- 
haps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was re- 
trenched in the representation. In deference also 
to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a 
particular way, the scene is here restored. The 
author submits it to the reader in his closet ; and 
hopes that too much refinement will not banish hu- 
mour and character from ours, as it has already 
done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French 
comedy is now become so very elevated and senti- 
■ mental, that it has not only banished humour and 
MoUere from the stage, but it has banished all 
spectators too. 

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks^ 
to the public for the favourable reception which 
" The Good-Natured Man" has met with; and to 
Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. 
It may not also be improper to assure any, who 
shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or 
supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to 
his protection. 



PROLOGUE 
WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON, 

AND 
SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLET. 

Prest by the load of life, the weary mind 
Surveys the general toil of human kind ; 
With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, 
And social sorrow loses half its pain ; 
Our anxious bard without complaint, may share 
This bustling season's epidemic care. 
Like Cffisar's pilot, dignified by fate, , 

Tost in one common storm with all the great ; 
Distrest ahke, the statesman and the wit, 
When one a borough courts, and one the pit. 
The busy candidates for power and fame 
Have hopes and fears, and wishes, just the same ; 
Disabled both to combat or to fly, 
Must bear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
Th' offended burgess holds his angry tale, 
For that blest year v^hen all that vote may rail ; 
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. 
" This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," 
Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's vote." 
" This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, 
" Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies." 
The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe ; 
The bard may supplicate, but can not bribe. 
Yet judged by those, whose voices ne'er were sold, 
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
But confident of praise, if praise be due. 
Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to you. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



167 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

]VIEN. 

Mr. Honeywood .... Mr. Powell. 

Croaker Mr. Shuter. 

Lofty Mr. Woodward. 

Sir William Honeywood . Mr. Clarke. 

Leontine Mr. Bensley. 

Jarvis ........ Mr. Dunstall. 

Butler Mr. Cushing. 

Bailiff Mr. R. Smith. 

■DuBARDiEU Mr. Holtam. 

Postboy . . .... Mr. CLuick. 

WOMEN. 

Miss Richland .... Mrs. Bulkley. 

Olivia Mrs. Mattocks. 

Mrs. Croaker Mrs. Pitt. 

Garnet Mrs. Green. 

Landlady Mrs. White. 

Scene — London. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

ACT I. 

SCENE — AN APARTMENT IN YOUNG HONEYWOOD's 

house. 
Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, JAKVIS. 

Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies 
for this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is 
the best excuse for every freedom. 

Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very 
angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so 
good, so worthy a young gentleman as your ne- 
phew, my master. All the world loves him. 

Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the 
world ; that is his fault. 

Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more 
dear to him than you are, though he has not seen 
you since he was a child. 

Sir William. What signifies his affection to 
me ; or how can I be proud of a place in a heart 
where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy 
entrance 1 

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good- 
natured ; that he's too much every man's man ; that 
he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next 
with another ; but whose instructions may he thank 
for all this? 

Sir William. Not mine, sure 1 My letters to 
him during my employment in Italy, taught him 
only that philosophy which might prevent, not de- 
fend his errors. 

Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, 
I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; it 



has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy 
is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on 
a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear 
him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's 
going to play the fool. 

Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to 
his philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his 
good-nature arises rather from his fears of offending 
the importunate, than his desire of making the de- 
serving happy. 

Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know. 
But to be sure, every body has it, that asks it. 

Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I 
have been now for some time a concealed spectator 
of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dis- 
sipation. 

Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name 
or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, 
generosity; and his trusting every body, universal 
benevolence. It was but last week he went se- 
curity for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and 
that he called an act of exalted mu — mu — munifi.- 
cence ; ay, that was the name he gave it. 

Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my 
last effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim 
him. That very fellow has just absconded, and 1 
have taken up the security. Now, my intention is 
to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has 
plunged himself into real calamity : to arrest him for 
that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and 
then let him see which of his friends will come to 
his rehef. 

Jarvis. Well, if 1 could but any way see him 
thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be mu- 
sic to me; yet faith, I believe it impossible. I have 
tried to fret him myself every morning these three 
years; but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly 
to hear me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. 

Sir William. We must try him once more, 
however, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme 
into execution : and I don't despair of succeeding, 
as, by your means, I can have frequent opportuni- 
ties of being about him without being known. 
What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good-will 
to others should produce so much neglect of him- 
self, as to require correction ! Yet we must touch 
his weaknesses with a deUcate hand. There are 
some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we 
can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating 
the virtue. [E.vif. 

Jarvis. Well, go thy ways. Sir William Ho- 
neywood. It is not without reason, that the world 
allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes 
his hopeful nephew; the strange, good-natured, 
foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his faults are 
such that one loves him still the better for them. 
Enter HONEYWOOD. 

Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from 
my friends this morning 1 



168 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Jar vis. You have no friends. 
Honeywood. "Well; from my acquaintance then? 
Jarvis. [■pulling out bills.'] A few of our 
usual cards of compliment, that's all. This bill 
from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this 
from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he 
has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the 
money you borrowed. 

Honeywood. That I don't know; but I am sure 
we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to 
lend it. 

■Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 

Honeywood. Then he has lost a very good thing. 

Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were 
sending to the poor gentleman and his children in 
the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for 
a while at least. 

Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
mouths in the meantime 7 Must I be cruel, because 
he happens to be importunate ; and, to relieve his 
avarice, leave them to insupportable distress! 

Jarvis. 'Sdeath! sir, the question now is how 
to relieve yourself; yourself. — Haven't I reason to 
be out of my senses, when I see things going at 
sixes and sevens 1 

Honeyioood. Whatever reason you may have 
for being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow 
that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in 
mine. 

Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your pre- 
sent situation that could do so. — Every thing upon 
the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine 
fortune gone already, and upon the point of being 
given to your rival. 

Honeywood. I'm no man's rival. 

Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disin- 
herit you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and no- 
thing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a 
pack of drunken servants that your kindness has 
made unfit for any other family. 

Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion 
for being in mine. 

Jarvis. Soh ! What will you have done with 
him that I caught stealing your plate in the pan- 
try? In the fact; I caught him in the fact. 

Honeywood. In the fact ? If so, I really think 
that we should pay him his wages, and turn him 
off. 

Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the 
dog ; we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the 
rest of the family. 

HoneyiDood. No, Jarvis; it's enough that we 
have lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it 
the loss of a fellow creature ! 

Jarvis. Very fine ! well, here was the footman 
just now, to complain of the butler : he says he 
does most work, and ought to have most wages. 

Honeywood. That's but just; though perhaps 
here comes the butler to complain of the footman. 



Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the 
sculUon to the privy-counsellor. If they have a bad 
master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they 
have a good master, they keep quarrelhng with one 
another. 

Enter BUTLER, drunk. 

Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jona- 
than ; you must part with him, or part with me, 
that's the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 

Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But 
what's his fault, good Philip? 

Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I 
shall have my morals corrupted by keeping such 
company. 

Honeywood. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting 
way— 

Jarvis. O, quite amusing. 

Butler. I find my wine's a-going, sir; and li- 
quors don't go without mouths, sir; I hate a drunk- 
ard, sir. 

Ho7ieywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you 
upon that another time ; so go to bed now. 

Jarvis. To bed ! let him go to the devil. 

Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and beg 
ging your pardon. Master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, 
nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to 
mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. 
Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you. 

Honeywood. Why didn't you show him up, 
blockhead ? 

Butler. Show him up, sir ! With all my heart, 
sir. Up or down, all's one to me. [Exit. 

Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family 
in this house from morning till night. He comes 
on the old affair, I suppose. The match between 
his son that's just returned from Paris, and Miss 
Richland, the young lady he's guardian to. 

Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker know- 
ing my friendship for the young lady, has got it 
into his head that I can persuade her to what I 
please. 

Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as 
well as she loves you, we should soon see a mar- 
riage that would set all things to rights again. 

Honeywood. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. 
No, no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to 
more than friendship — mere friendship. That she 
is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the 
human heart with desire, I own. But never let 
me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by 
a connexion with one so unworthy her merits as I 
am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, 
even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her hap- 
piness, though it destroys my own. 

Jarvis. Was ever the like? I want patience. 

Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could ob- 
tain Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could 
succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his 
wife ; who, though both very fine in their way, are 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



169 



«e yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you 
know. 

Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows! the 
very reverse of each other : she, all laugh and no 
joke; he always complaining and never sorrowful ; 
a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every 
hour in the four-and-twenty — 

Honeywood. Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll 
hear you. 
Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing-bell — 
Honeywood. Well, well ; go, do. 
Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; 
a coffin and cross bones; a bundle of rue; a sprig of 
deadly night-shade; a — [Honeyicood stopping 
his mouth, at last pushes him off. 
Exit JARVIS. 
Honeywood. I must own my old monitor is not 
entirely wrong. There is something in my friend 
Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. 
His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and 
his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits 
than an undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, tliis is 
such a satisfaction — 

Enter CROAKER. 
Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honey- 
wood, and many of them. How is this ! you look 
most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope 
this weather does not affect your spirits. To be 
sure, if this weather .continues — I say nothing — 
But God send we be all better this day three months. 
Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish, 
though, I own, not in your apprehensions. 

Croaker. May-be not. Indeed what signifies 
what weather we have in a country going to ruin 
like oursi taxes rising and trade falling. Money 
flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming 
into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred 
and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing-cross 
and Temple-bar. 

Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert 
you or me, I should hope. 

Croaker. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies 
whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any 
religion to lose ! I'm only afraid for our wives and 
daughters. 

Honeyicood. I have no apprehensions for the 
ladies, I assure you. 

Croaker. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies 
whether they be perverted or no? the women in my 
time were good for something. I have seen a lady 
drest from top to toe in her own manufactures for- 
merly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their 
own manufacture's about them, except their faces. 
Honeywood. But, however these faults may be 
practised abroad, you don't find them at home, 
either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland 7 
Croaker. The best of them will never be canon- 
ized for a saint when she's dead. By the by, my 
dear friend, I don't find this match between Miss 



Richland and my son much relished^ either by one 
side or t' other. 

Honeywood. 1 thought otherwise. 

Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your 
fine serious advice to the young lady might go far: 
I know she has a very exalted opinion of your un- 
derstanding. 

Honeywood. But would not that be usurping ah 
authority that more properly belongs to yourself? 

Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of 
my authority at home. People think, indeed, be- 
cause they see me come out in a morning thus, with 
a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that 
all's well within. But I have cares that would 
break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroach- 
ed upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now 
no more than a mere lodger in my own house. 

Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on your 
side might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion! 
I do rouse sometimes. But what then? always 
haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting 
the better before his wife is tired of losing the 
victory. 

Honeywood. It's a melancholy consideration in- 
deed, that our chief comforts often produce our 
greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our pos- 
sessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 

Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the 
very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week 
before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. 
Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in 
mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected 
for you ! and so true a friend! we loved each other 
for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend 
him a single farthing. 

Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to com- 
mit so rash an action at last? 

Croaker. I don't know: some people were ma- 
licious enough to say it was keeping company with 
me; because we used to meet now and then and 
open our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved 
to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk; 
poor dear Dick. He used to say that Croaker rhymed 
to joker; and so we used to laugh — Poor Dick. 
[Going to cry. 

Honeywood. His fate affects me. 

Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, 
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, 
dress and undress, get up and lie down ; while rea- 
son, that should watch like a nurse by our side, 
falls as fast asleep as we do. 

Honeywood. To say truth, if we compare that 
part of life which is to come, by that which we have 
past, the prospect is hideous. 

Croaker. Life at the greatest and best is but a 
froward child, that must be humoured and coaxed 
a httle till it falls asleep, and then all the care is 
is over. 



170 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Honeywood. Very truCj sir, nothing can exceed 
the vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pur- 
suits. We wept when we came into the world, 
and every day tells us why. 

Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 
faction to be miserable with you. My son Leon- 
tine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. 
I'll just step home for him. I am willing to show 
him so much seriousness in one scarce older than 
himself— And what if I bring my last letter to the 
Gazetteer on the increase and progress of earth- 
quakes ? It will amuse us, I promise you. I there 
prove how the late earthquake is coming roimd to 
pay us another visit, from London to Lisbon, from 
Lisbon to the Canary Islands, from the Canary 
Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Constantino- 
ple, and so from Constantinople back to London 
again. [Exit. 

Honeywood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves 
the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits 
these three days. Sure to live upon such terms is 
worse than death itself. And yet, when I consider 
my own situation, — a broken fortune, a hopeless 
passion, friends in distress, the wish but not the 
power to serve them — [pausing and sighing.] 
Enter BUTLER. 

Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker 
and Miss Richland ; shall I show them upl but 
they're showing up themselves. [E.vit. 

Enter MRS. CROAKER and MISS RICHLAND. 

Miss Richland. You're always in such spirits. 

Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear 
Honeywood, from the auction. There was the 
old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury 
against herself. And then so curious in antiques ! 
herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in the 
whole collection. 

Honeywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasi- 
ness from friendship makes me unfit to share in this 
good-humour : I know you'll pardon me. 

Mrs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy as 
if he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. 
Well, if Richland here can pardon you I must. 

Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, 
madam, that I have particular reasons for being dis- 
posed to refuse it. 

Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 

Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. 
Honeywood' s long friendship and mine should be 
misunderstood. 

Honeywood. There's no answering for others, 
madam. - But I hope you'll never find me presum- 
ing to offer more than the most delicate friendship 
may readily allow. 

Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such 
a tribute from you, than the most passionate pro- 
fessions from others. 

Honeywood. My own sentiments, madam; friend- 
ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; 



love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and 
slaves. 

Miss Richland. And, without a compliment, I 
know none more disinterested, or more capable of 
friendship, than Mr. Honeywood. 

Mrs. Croaker. And, indeed, I know nobody that 
has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss 
Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, 
praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy 
Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 

Miss Richland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
know, sir, you were such a favourite there. But 
is she seriously so handsome 1 Is she the mighty 
thing talked of? 

Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins 
to praise a lady's beauty, till she's beginning to 
lose it. [Smiling 

Mrs. Croaker. But she's resolved never to lose 
it, it seems. For, as her natural face decays, her 
skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, 
nothing diverts me more than one of those fine, 
old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age, 
by every where exposing her person; sticking her- 
self up in the front of a side box ; trailing through 
a minuet at Almack's; and then in the public gar- 
dens, looking for all the world like one of the paint- 
ed ruins of the place. 

Honeywood. Every age has its admirers, ladies. 
While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer 
climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry 
on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes be- 
yond fifty. 

Miss Richland. But, then, the mortifications 
they must suffer, before they can be fitted out for 
traffic. I have seen one of them fret a whole 
morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was 
her face. 

Honeywood. And yet, I'll engage, has carried 
that face at last to a very good market. This 
good-natured town, madam, has husbands, like 
spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natured 
creature. But you know you're engaged with us 
this morning upon a strolling party. I want to 
show Olivia the town, and the things ; I believe I 
shall have business for you for the whole day. 

Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, I have an ap- 
pointment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossi- 
ble to put off. 

Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband 1 then 
I'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest 
you must. You know I never laugh so much as 
with you. 

Honeywood. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear 
you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you 
find jest, and I'll find laugh I promise you. We'll 
wait for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. 
Enter LEONTINE and OLIVIA. 

Leontine. There they go, thoiightless and hap- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



171 



py. My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see 
you capable of sharing in their amusements, and 
as cheerfvd as they are. 

Olima. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheer- 
ful, when I have so many terrors to oppress me 7 
The fear of being detected by this family, and the 
apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must 
be detected — 

Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say 7 
At worst it can only say, that, being compelled by 
a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you dis- 
liked, you formed a resolution of flying with the 
man of your choice ; that you confided in his hon- 
our, and took refuge in my father's house ; the only 
one where yours could remain without censure. 

Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedi- 
ence and my indiscretion; your being sent to 
France to bring home a sister, and instead of a 
sister, bringing home 

Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. 
One that I am convinced will be equally dear to 
the rest of the family, when she comes to be known. 

Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 

Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think 
proper to make the discovery. My sister, you 
know, has been with her aunt at Lyons, since she 
was a child, and you find every creature in the 
family takes you for her. 

Olivia. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt 
write? 

Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all 
my sister's letters are directed to me. 

Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, 
for whom you know the old gentleman intends 
you, create a suspicion 7 

Leontine. There, there's my master-stroke. I 
have resolved not to refuse her; nay, an hour 
hence I have consented to go with my father to 
make her an offer of my heart and fortune. 

Olivia. Your heart and fortune ! 

Leontine. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can 
Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, 
as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from 
any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force, 
nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, 
leave any room to suspect me. I only oflfer Miss 
Richland a heart I am convinced she will refuse ; 
as I am confident, that without knowing it. her af- 
fections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 

Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! you'll excuse my ap- 
prehensions ; but when your merits come to be put 
in the balance — 

Leontine. You view them with too much par- 
tiality. However, bj"^ maldng this offer, I show a 
seeming compliance with my father's command ; 
and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his con- 
sent to choose for myself. 

Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leon- 
Jine, I own, I shall envy her even your pretended 



addresses. I consider every look, every expression 
of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, 
perhaps : I allow it ; but it is natural to suppose, 
that merit which has made an impression on one's 
own heart, may be powerful over that of another. 

Leontine. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
malie imaginary evils, when you know we have 
so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you 
know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my 
father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to 

Scotland : and 

Enter CKOAKER. 

Croaker. Where have you been boy 1 I have 
been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here 
has been saying such comfortable things. Ah! 
he's an example indeed. Where is hel I left him 
here. 

Leontine. Sir, I believe you may see him, and 
hear him too, in the next room ; he's preparing to 
ffo out with the ladies. 

Croaker. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes 
or my ears ! I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, 
and stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was 
there ever such a transformation ! [A laugh be- 
hind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.] Ha! ha! ha ! 
there it goes : a plague take their balderdash ! yet 
I could expect nothing less, when my precious wife 
was of the party. On my conscience, I believe she 
could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a 
tabernacle. 

Leontine. Since you find so many objections to 
a wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recom- 
mending one to mel 

Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, 
boy, that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out 
of the family ; one may find comfort in the money, 
whatever one does in the wife. 

Leontine. But, sir, though, in obedience to your 
desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible 
she has no inclination to me. 

Croaker. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. 
A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune con- 
sists in a claim upon government, which my good 
friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the treasury will al- 
low. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her fa- 
ther's will, in case she refuses to marry you. So, 
if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune ; if 
she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl 
into the bargain. 

Leontine. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason— 

Croaker. Corae, then, produce your reasons. I 
tell you, I'm fixed, determined; so now produce 
your reasons. When I'm determined, I always 
listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. 

Leontine. You have alleged that a mutual choice 
was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. 

Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a 
mutual choice. She has her choice — to marry you, 
or lose half her fortune ; and you have your choice— 



m 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



to marry her, or pack out of doors without any 
fortune at all. 

Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect more 
indulgence. 

Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more 
obedience : besides, has not your sister here, that 
never disobliged me in her Ufe, as good a right as 
you7 He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would 
take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he 
shan't, for you shall have your share. 

Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced, 
that I can never be happy in any addition to my 
fortune, which is taken from his. 

Croaker. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no 
more ; but come with me, and we shall see some- 
thing that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I 
promise you ; old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, 
lying in state : I am told he makes a very hand- 
some corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. 
He was an intimate friend of mine, and these are 
friendly things we ought to do for each other. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE — croaker's HOUSE. 

MISS RICHLAND, GARNET. 

Miss Richland. OUvia not his sisterl Olivia not 
Leontine's sister 1 You amaze me ! 

Garnet. No more his sister than I am ; I had it 
all from his ovsti servant : I can get any thing from 
that quarter. 

Miss Richland. But how 7 Tell me again. Gar- 
net. 

Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, in- 
stead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, 
who has been there with her aunt these ten years, 
he never went farther than Paris : there he saw 
and fell in love with this young lady, by the by, of 
a prodigious family. 

Miss Richland. And brought her home to my 
guardian as his daughter 1 

Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If 
he don't consent to their marriage, they talk of try- 
ing what a Scotch parson can do. 

Miss Richland. Well, I own they have deceiv- 
ed me — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! — 
Would you believe it. Garnet, I told her all my se- 
crets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from 
me? 

Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don't 
much blame her : she was loath to trust one with 
her secrets that was so very bad at keeping her 
own. 

Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the 
young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me 
serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be 



here presently, to open the affair in form. You 
know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. 
Garnet. Yet, what can you do 1 For being, as 
you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam — 

Miss Richland. How! idiot, what do you mean? 
In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke 
me? 

Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with 
him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I 
hope to be married ; nothing more. 

Miss Richland. Well, no more of this : As to 
my guardian and his son, they shall find me pre- 
pared to receive them : I'm resolved to accept their 
proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by 
compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon 
them. 

Garnet. Delicious! and that will secure your 
whole fortune to yourself. Well, who could have 
thought so innocent a face could cover so much 
'cuteness ! 

Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my 
prudence to their cunning, and practise a lesson 
they have taught me against themselves. 

Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want 
employment, for here they come, and in close con- 
ference. 

Enter CROAKER, LEONTINE. 
Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate 
upon the point of putting to the lady so important 
a question. 

Croaker. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; 
you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had 
changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half 
or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit 
you begin: Well, why don't you? Eh! what? 
Well then — I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my 
dear, I believe you guess at our business, an affair 
which my son here comes to open, that nearly con- 
cerns your happiness. 

Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not 
to be pleased with any thing that comes recom- 
mended by you. 

Croaker. How, boy, cotild you desire a finer 
opening ? Why don't you begin, I say ? 

[ To Leontine. 
Leontine. 'Tistrue, madam, my father, madam, 
has some intentions — hem — of explaining an affair 
— which — himself — can best explain, madam. 

Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from 
my son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. And 
I will permit him to make the best of it. 

Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam ; 
my father has a proposal to make, which he insists 
none but himself shall deliver. 

Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
never be brought on. [Aside.] In short, madam, 
you see before you one that loves you ; one whose 
whole happiness is all in you. 

Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



173 



regard, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my 



duty. 

Croaker. That's not the thing, my little sweet- 
ing ; my love ! No, no, -another guess lover than 
I : there he stands, madam, his very looks declare 
the force of his passion — Call up a look, you dog ! 
[Aside.] — But then, had you seen him, as I have, 
weepinff, speaking soliloquies and blanlc verse, 
sometimes melancholy, and sometimes absent — 

Aliss Richland. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or 
such a declaration would have come most properly 
from himself. 

Croaker. Himself ! madam, he wovdd die before 
he could make such a confession ; and if he had 
not a channel for his passion through me, it would 
ere now have drowned his understanding. 

Miss Richland. I must grant, sir, there are at- 
tractions in modest diffidence above the force of 
words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence 
of sincerity. 

Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any 
other language ; silence is become his mother tongue. 
Miss Richland. And it must be confessed, sir, 
it speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet 
I shall be thought too forward in making such a 
confession; shan't I, Mr. Leontine7 

Leonline. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may dis- 
gust her. I'll try. [^sic^e.] Don't imagine from my 
silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the hon- 
our and happiness intended me. My father, mad- 
am, tells me, your humble servant is not totally in- 
different to you. He admires you ; I adore you ; and 
when we come together, upon my soul I believe 
we shall be the happiest couple in all St. James's, 
Miss Richland. If I could flatter myself you 
thought as you spealc, sir — 

Leonline. Doubt my sincerity, madam 1 By your 
dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire 

glory ? ask cowards if they covet safety 

Croaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. 
Leonline. Ask the sick if they long for health 1 

ask misers if they love money ? ask 

Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense 7 
What's come over the boy 1 What signifies asking, 
when there's not a soul to give you an answer? If 
you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's con- 
sent to make you happy. 

Miss Richland. Why indeed, sir, his uncom- 
mon ardour almost compels me — forces me to com- 
ply. And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest 
gained with too much ease; won't you, Mr. Leon- 
tine? 

Leonline. Confusion ! [Aside.] Oh, by no means, 
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talk- 
ed of force. There is nothing I would avoid so 
much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, 
m_adam, 1 will still be generous, and leave .you at 
liberty to refuse. 



Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at 
liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. 
Silence gives consent. 

Leonline. But, sir, she talked of force. Consi- 
der, sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 
Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't 
you know, blockhead, that girls have always a 
roundabout way of saying yes before company 1 
So get you both gone together into the next room, 
and hang him that interrupts the tender cxplana^ 
tion. Get you gone, I say : I'll not hear a word. 
Leonline. But, sir. I must beg leave to insist — 
Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I'U beg leave to 
insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! 
But I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his 
mother. 

[Exeunt MISS RICHLAND and LEONTINE, 
Enter MRS. CROAKER. 
Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croalier, I bring you some- 
thing, my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 
Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 
Mrs. Croaker. A letter; and as I knew the 
hand, I ventured to open it. 

Croaker. And how can you expect your break- 
ing open my letters should give me pleasure 1 

Mrs. Croaker. Poo ! it's from your sister at 
Lyons, and contains good news ; read it. 

Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here! 
That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I 
could never teach her to fold a letter. 

Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick. Read what 
it contains. 

CROAKER [reading.] 
Dear Nick, 

"An English gentleman, of large fortune, has 
for some time made private, though honourable pro- 
posals to your daughter Olivia. They love each 
other tenderly, and I find she has consented, with- 
out letting any of the family know, to crown his 
addresses. As such good oflfers don't come every 
day, your awn good sense, his large fortune and 
family considerations, will induce you to forgive 
her. " Yours ever, 

" Rachael Croaker, 
My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a 
man of large fortune ! This is good news indeed. 
My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how 
slily the little baggage has carried it since she came 
home ; not a word on't to the old ones for the world. 
Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to con- 
ceal. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed 
their amour, they shan't conceal their wedding; 
that shall be public, I'm resolved. 

Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
most foolish part of the ceremony, I can never get 
this woman to think of the most serious part of the 
nuptial engagement. 

Mrs. Croaker. What, would you have me think 



174 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



of their funeral 1 But come, tell me, my dear, don't 
you owe more to me than you care to confess'? 
Would you have ever been knovra to Mr. Lofty, 
who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the 
Treasury, but for me 1 Who was it first made him 
an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout 1 Who 
got him to promise us his interest 1 Is not he a 
back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he 
pleases with those that do what they please ? Is 
not he an acquaintance that all your groaning and 
lamentation could never have got us 1 

Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant 
you. And yet what amazes me is, that, while he 
is giving away places to all the world, he can't get 
one for himself. 

Mrs. Croaker. That perhaps may be owing to 
his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 
Enter French SERVANT. 
Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. 
He vil be vait upon your honours instrammant. 
He be only giving four five instruction, read two 
tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He 
vil be vid you in one tree minutes. 

Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear. What 
an extensive department! Well, friend, let your 
master know, that we are extremely honoured by 
this honour. Was there any thing ever in a higher 
style of breeding? All messages among the great 
are now done by express. 

Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things 
■with more solemnity, or claims more respect, than 
he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, 
respect is given where respect is claimed. 

Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear; 
you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. 
Let us now think of receiving him with proper re- 
spect — [a loud rapping at the door,] — and there 
he is, by the thundering rap. 

Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon 
the heels of his own express as an endorsement 
upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to re- 
ceive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for 
intending to steal a marriage without mine or her 
aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or she 
too may begin to despise my authority. [Exit. 
Enter LOFTY, speaking to his Servant. 
Lofty. " And if the Venetian ambassador, or 
that teasing creature the marquis, should call, I'm 
not at home. Dam'me, I'll be a pack-horse to 
none of them." My dear madam, I have just 
snatched a moment — " And if the expresses to his 
grace be ready, let them be sent oS; they're of im- 
portance." — Madam, I ask a thousand pardons. 
Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour. 
Lofty. "And, Dubardieu! if the person calls 
about the commission, let him know that it is made 
out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it 
can keep cold : you understand me." — Madam, I 
ask ten thousand pardons. 



Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 

Lofty. "And, Dubardieu! if the man comes 
from the Cornish borough, you must do him; you 
must do him, I say." — Madam, I ask ten thousand 
pardons. — " And if the Russian ambassador calls; 
but he will scarce call to-day, I beheve." — And - 
now, madam, I have just got time to express my 
happiness in having the honour of being permitted 
to profess myself your most obedient humble ser- 
vant. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour 
are all mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public 
while I detain you. 

Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair 
are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so 
charmingly devoted! Sincerely, don't you pity us 
poor creatures in affairs? Thus it is eternally; so- 
licited for places here, teased for pensions there, and 
courted every where. I know you pity me. Yea. 
I see you do. 

Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, " Toils of era 
pires pleasures are," as Waller says. 

Lofty. Waller, Waller, is he of the house 7 

Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, 
sir. 

Lofty. Oh, a modern ! we men of business d& 
spise the moderns ; and as for the^ancients, we have 
no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing 
enough for our wives and daughters ; but not for 
us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing 
of books. I say, madam, I know notliing of 
books ; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage 
fishery, a stamp act, or a jag -hire, I can talk my 
two hours without feeUng the want of them. 

Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr, 
Lofty' s eminence in every capacity. 

Lofty. I vow to gad, madani, you make me blush. 
I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere 
obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two 
of the present ministers are pleased to represent me 
as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to 
bespatter me at all their httle dirty levees. Yet, 
upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to 
treat me so! Measures, not men, have always been 
my mark; and I vow, by all that's honourable, my 
resentment has never done the men, as mere men, 
any manner of harm — that is as mere men. 

Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what 
modesty ! 

Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, 
I own, I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foi 
ble : it was so the Duke of Brentford used to say 
of me. " I love Jack Lofty," he used to say : " no 
man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a man 
of information; and, when he speaks upon his legs, 
by the Lord he's prodigious, he scouts them ; and 
yet all men have their faults; too much modesty is 
his," says his grace. 

Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



175 



want assurance when you come to solicit for your 
friends; 

Lofty. O, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apro- 
pos! I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's 
case to a certain personage; we must name no 
names. "When I ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. 
No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine 
girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of 
mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, 
Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her busi- 
ness must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. 

Mrs. Croaker. Bless me! you said all this to the 
secretary of state, did you"? 

Lofty. I did not say the secretary, did 1 1 Well, 
curse it, since you have found me out, I will not 
deny it. It was to the secretary. 

Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain- 
head at once, not applying to the understrappers, 
as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. 

Lofty. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, a 
fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has 
just happened to him? 

Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man; no accident, I 
hope ? 

Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His credi- 
tors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in 
his own house. 

Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house! 
How? At this very time? I'm quite \mhappy for 
him. 

Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, 
was immensely good-natured. But then I could 
never find that he had any thing in him. 

Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was ex- 
cessive harmless; some, indeed, thought it a little 
dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion. 

Lofty, It can't be concealed, madam; the man 
was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! a poor im- 
practicable creature ! I tried once or twice to know 
if he was fit for business; but he had scarce talents 
to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 

Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Rich- 
land think of him! For, 1 believe, with all his 
faults, she loves him. 

Lofty. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure 
her of that by all means. Let me see; what if she 
were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful 
situation? My life for it, that works her cure. 
Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we 
join her in the next room? Miss Richland is a fine 
girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown 
away. Upon my honour, madam. I have a regard 
for Miss. Richland ; and rather than she should be 
thrown away, I should think it no indignity to 
marry her myself. {E.veunt, 

Enter OLIVIA and LEONTINE. 

Leontine And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as 1 did 



every thing in my power to deserve it. Her in- 
delicacy surprises me. 

Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so in- 
delicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, 1 
fear 1 shall be the most guilty thing aUve. 

Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The 
same attention I lased to advance my merit with 
you, I practised to lessen it with her What more 
could I do? 

Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to 
be done. We have both dissembled too long.— 5 
have always been ashamed^I am now quite weary 
of it. Sure I could never have undergone so much 
for any other but you. 

Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal 
to your kindest compliance. Though our friends" 
should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon 
content for the deficiencies of fortune. 

Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme 
of humble happiness, when it is now in our pow- 
er? I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; 
but can it ever be thought, that his present kind- 
ness to a supposed child will continue to a known 
deceiver? 

Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will. 
As his attachments are but few they are lasting. 
His own marriage was a private one, as ours may 
be. Besides, I have sounded him already at a dis- 
tance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish. 
Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from 
him, I am induced to think he knows of this affair. 

Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness 
too great to be expected. 

Leontine. However it be, I'm certain you have 
power over him ; and I am persuaded, if you in- 
formed him of our situation, that he would be dis- 
posed to pardon it. 

Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine^ 
from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which 
you find has succeeded most wretchedly. 

Leontine. And that's the best reason for trying 
another. 

Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 

Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way. 
Now my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just re- 
tire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, 
either to share your danger, or confirm your vic- 
tory. [Exit. 

Enter CROAKER. 

Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not 
too easily neither. It will be proper to keep up the 
decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to im- 
press her with an idea of my authority. 

Olivia. How I tremble to approach him! — 
Might I presume, sir, — if I interrupt you — 

Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection, 
it is not a little thing that can interrupt me. Af- 
fection gets over Uttle things. 



Ji7? 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how 
ill I deserve this partiaUty ; yet, Heaven knows, 
there is nothing I would not do to gain it. 

Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, 
you little hussy, you. With those endearing ways 
of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to 
forgive any thing, unless it were a very great of- 
fence indeed. 

Olivia. But mine is such an offence— When 
you know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, 
though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. 

Croaker. Why, then, if it be so very great a 
pain, you may spare yourself the trouble; for I 
know every syllable of the matter before you begin. 

Olivia. Indeed ! then I'm undone. 

Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
without letting me know it, did you ? But I'm 
not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's 
to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to 
have no hand in the disposal of my own children. 
No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of fami- 
ly lumber ; a piece of cracked china to be stuck up 
in a corner. 

Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your 
authority could induce us to conceal it from you. 

Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; 
I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, 
just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till there 
comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. 

[Aside. 

Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and 
despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask 
it. But your severity shall never abate my affec- 
tion, as my punishment is but justice. 

Croaker. And yet you should not despair nei- 
ther, Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 

Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir? 
Can I ever expect to be forgiven 7 But hope has 
too long deceived me. 

Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you 
now, for I forgive you this very moment ; I forgive 
you all! and now you are indeed my daughter. 

Olivia. O transport! this kindness overpowers 
me. 

Croaker. I was always against severity to our 
children. We have been young and giddy our- 
selves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be old 
before their time. 

Olivia. What generosity! But can you forget 
the many falsehoods, the dissimulation 

Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin 
you ; but where's the girl that won't dissemble for 
a husband? My wife and I had never been mar- 
ried, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 

Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put 
such generosity to a second trial. And as for the 
partner of my offence and folly, from his native 
honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I can 
answer for him that 



Enter LEONTTNE. 

Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for him- 
self. [Kneeling.] Thus, sir, let me speak my 
gratitude for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir. 
this even exceeds aU your former tenderness. I 
now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The 
life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling 
blessing. 

Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with 
that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? 
I don't know what we have to do with your grati- 
tude upon this occasion. 

Leontine. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent, 
when so much obliged 1 Would you refuse me 
the pleasure of being grateful? of adding my thanks 
to my Ohvia's? of sharing in the transports that 
you have thus occasioned ? 

Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough 
without your coming in to make up the party. I 
don't know what's the matter with the boy all this 
day ; he has got into such a rhodomontade manner 
all this morning ! 

Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part 
in the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy? 
is the being admitted to your favour so slight an 
obligation? is the happiness of marrying my Oh- 
via so small a blessing? 

Croaker. Marrying Olivia! marrying Olivia! 
marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of 
his senses. His own sister. 

Leontine. My sister! 

Olivia. Sister! How have I been mistaken! 

[Aside. 

Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this, I find. 

[Aside. 

Croaker. What does the booby mean? or has 
he any meaning ? Eh, what do you mean, you 
blockhead, you? 

Leontine. Mean, sir, — why, sir — only when my 
sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of 
marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her away, sir, 
— I have made a point of it. 

Croaker. O, is that all? Give her av/ay. You 
have made a point of it. Then you had as good 
make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm 
going to prepare the vraitings between you and 
Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is 
here about nothing ! Why, what's the matter now? 
I thought I had made you at least as happy as you 
could wish. 

Olivia. O! yes, sir; very happy. 

Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You 
look as if you did. I think if any thing was to be 
foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another j 
and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit. 

LEONTINE, OLIVIA. 

Olivia. What can it mean? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



177 



Leontine. He knows something, and yet for my 
life I can't tell what. 

Olivia. It can't be the connexion between us, 
I'm pretty certain. 

Leontine, Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm re- 
solved to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our 
mortification. I'll haste and prepare for our jour- 
ney to Scotland this; very evening. My friend 
Honeywood has promised me his advice and assist- 
ance. I'll go to him and repose our distresses on 
his friendly bosom ; and I know so much of his 
honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasi- 
nesses, he will at least share them. [Exeunt 



ACT III. 

SCENE — TOUNG HONEYWOOD' S HOUSE. 
BAILIFF, HONEYWOOD, FOLLOWER, 

Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men 
as you in my time : no disparagement of you nei- 
ther : men that would go forty guineas on a game 
of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a man 
in more genteeler practice than myself. 

Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. . I 

forget your name, sir. 

Bailiff. How can you forget what you never 
knew? he! he! he! 

Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name 7 

Bailiff. Yes, you may. 

Honeywood. Then, pray, sir, what is your namel 

Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. He! 
he ! he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we.say among 
us that practise the law. 

Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping 
it a secret, perhaps? 

Bailiff'. The law does nothing without reason. 
I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man. sir. If 
you can show cause, as why, upon a special capus, 
that I should prove my name — But, come, Timo- 
thy Twitch is my name. And, now you know 
my name, what have you to say to that? 

Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. 
Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. 

Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than 
granted, as we say among us that practise the law. 
I have taken an oath against granting favours. 
Would you have me perjure myself? 

Honeywood. But my request will come recom- 
mended in so strong a manner as, I believe, you'll 
have no scruple. [Pulling out his purse.] The 
thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to dis- 
charge this trifle in two or three days at farthest ; 
but as I would not have the affair known for the 
world, I have thoughts of keeping you, and your 
good friend here, about me, till the debt is discharg- 
ed ; for which I shall be properly grateful. 

Bailiff. Oh! that's another maxum, and alto- 
12 



gether within my oath. For certain, if an honest 
man is to get any thing by a thing, there's no rea- 
son why all things should not be done in civility. 

Honeywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 

[Gives him money. 

Bailiff. Oh! your honour : I hope your honour 
takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing 
but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can 
say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, 
ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentle- 
man, I have taken money not to see him for ten 
weeks together. 

Honeywood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 

Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to 
see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, 
but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all 
that I have lost by my heart was put together, it 
would make a — but no matter for that. 

Honeywood. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us 
of the conscious happiness of having acted with 
humanity ourselves. 

BaiUff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better 
than gold. I love humanity. People may say, 
that we in our way have no humanity ; but I'll show 
you my humanity this moment. There's my fol- 
low^er here. Little Flanigan, with a wife and four 
children, a guinea or two would be more to him 
than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't 
show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave 
you'll do it for me. 

Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, youi's 
is a most powerful recommendation. 

[Giving money to the follower. 

Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman, I see you know 
what to do with your money. But, to business : 
we are to be with you here as your friends, I sup- 
pose. But set in case company comes. — Little 
Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very 
good face ; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say 
among us that practise the law. Not well in 
clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 

Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied with- 
out delay. 

Enter SERVANT. 

Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 

Honeywood. How unlucky ! Detain her a mo- 
ment. We must improve my good friend little 
Mr. Flanigan' s appearance first. Here, let Mr. 
Flanican have a suit of my clothes — quick — the 
brown and silver — Do you hear ? 

Servant. That your honour gave away to the 
begging gentleman that makes verses, because it 
was as good as new. 

Honeywood. The white and gold then. 

Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to 
sell, because it was good for nothing. 

Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand 



178 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



then. The blue and gold then. I believe Mr. 
Flanigan will look best in blue. [E.rit Flanigan. 

Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look 
well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that 
bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love 
with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four 
counties after a shy-cock than he; scents like a 
hound : sticks like a weasel. He was master of 
the ceremonies to the black queen of Morocco, 
when 1 took him to follow me. [Re-enter Flani- 
gan.] Heh, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I 
don't care if I have a suit from the same place for 
myself. 

Eoneywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend di- 
rections not to speak. As for yourself, I know you 
will say nothing without being directed. 

Bailiff. Never you fear me; I'll show the lady 
that I have something to say for myself as well as 
another. One man has one way of talking, and 
another man has another, that's all the difference 
between them. 

Enter MISS RICHLAND and her Maid. 

Miss Richland. You'll be surprised, sir, with 
this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for 
choosing my little library. 

Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; 
as it was I that was obliged by your commands. 
Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. 
Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit 
without ceremony. 

Miss Richland. Who can these odd-looking 
men be; 1 fear it is as I was informed. It must be 
so. [Aside. 

Bailiff [after a pause.] Pretty weather; very 
pretty weather for the time of the ye^r, madam. 

Follower. Very good circuit weather in the 
country. 

Honeywood. You ofilcers are gen°rally favourites 
among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been 
upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The 
fiiir should in some measure recompense the toils 
of the braver 

Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve 
every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine 
service, I presume sir? 

Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasional- 
ly serve in the fleet, madam. A dangerous ser- 
vice! 

Miss Richland. I'm told so. And I own it has 
often surprised me, that while we have had so ma- 
ny instances of bravery there, we have had so few 
of wit at home to praise it. 

Honeywood. 1 grant, madam, that our poets have 
not written as our soldiers have fought ; but they 
have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst 
CQuld do no more. 



Miss Richland. I'm quite displeased when I see 
a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 

Honeywood. We should not be so severe against 
dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest 
writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who 
presumes to despise liim. 

Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and 
all that belongs to them. 

Miss Richland. Sir! 

Honeyicood. Ha ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan 
A true English officer, madam ; he's not content- 
ed with beating the French, but he will scold them 
too. 

Miss Richland. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does 
not convince me but that severity in criticism is 
necessary. It was our first adopting the severity 
of French taste, that has brought them in turn to 
taste us. 

Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they 
devour us. Give monseers but a taste, and I'll be 
damn'd but they come in for a bellyful!. 

Miss Richland. Very extraordinary this ! 

Follower. But very true. What makes the 
bread rising? the parle vous that devour us. What 
makes the mutton fivepence a pound? the parle 
vous that eat it up. What makes the beer three- 
pence-halfpcrmy a pot? 

HoneyiDood. Ah ! the vulgar rogues; all will be 
out. [Aside.] Right, gentlemen, very right, upon 
my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a 
parallel, madam, between the mental taste and that 
of OUT senses. We are injured as much by the 
French severity in the one, as by French rapacity 
in the other. That's their meaning. 

Miss Richland. Thougli I don't see the force 
of the parallel, yet I'll own, that we .should some- 
times pardon bool'.s, as we do our friends, that have 
now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend 
them. 

Bailiff. That's all my eye. The king only can 
pardon, as the la'v says : for set in case 

Honeywood. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I 
see the whole drift of j'our argument. Yes, cer- 
tainly, our presuming to pardon any work, is ar- 
rogating a power that belongs to another. If all 
have power to condemn, what writer can be free? 

Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 
can set him free at any time : for, set in case — 

Honeywood. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so 
careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to 
be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 

Folloxcer. Ay, hut if so be a man's nabb'd you 
know — 

Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, 
you could not improve the last observation. For 
my own part, I think it conclusive. 

Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap — 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



179 



Honeywood. Nay, sir, give me leave in this in 
stance to be positive. For where is the necessity 
of censuring wrorks without genius, which must 
shortly sink of themselves 7 what is it, but aiming 
an unnecessary blow against a victim already under 
the hands of justice ? 

Bailiff. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you talk 
about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a 
course of law — 

Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern 
what you'd be at perfectly ; and I believe the lady 
must be sensible of the art with which it is intro- 
duced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, ma- 
dam, of his course of law. 

Miss Richland. I protest, sir, I do not. I per- 
ceive only that you answer one gentleman before 
he has finished, and the other before he has well 
begun. 

Bailiff'. Madam, 3'ou are a gentlewoman, and I 
will make the matter out. This here question is 
about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the hke 
of they. Now, to explain the thing — 

Honeywood. O ! curse your explanations. 

[Aside. 

Enter SERVANT. 

Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to 
speak with you upon earnest business. 

Honeywood. That's lucky [ilsicZe.] Dear ma- 
dam, you'll excuse me and my good friends here, 
for a few minutes. There are books, madam, to 
amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make 
no ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. 
Excuse me. Well, if I must. But I know your 
natural politeness. 

Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 

Folloxcer. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and 
behind. 

[Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Folloioer. 

Miss Richland. What can all this mean, Gar- 
net? 

Garnet. Mean, madam! why, what should it 
mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see 7 
These people he calls officers, are officers sure 
enough ; sheriff's officers; bailiffs, madam. 

Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, 
though his perplexities are far from giving me 
pleasure, yet I own there's something very ridicu- 
lous in them, and a just punishment for his dis- 
simulation. 

Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder, ma- 
dam, that the lawyer you just employed to pay his 
debts, and set him free, has not done it by this time. 
He ought at least to have been here before now. 
But lawyers are always more ready to get a man 
into troubles than out of them. 

Enter SIR WHXIAM HONEYWOOD. 

Sir William. For Miss Richland to undertake 



setting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. I 
has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. 
Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a 
number of worthless friendships, he has made one 
acquisition of real value ; for there must be some 
softer passion on her side that prompts this gene- 
rosity. Ha ! here before me : I'll endeavour to 
sound her aflections. — Madam, as I am the person 
that have had some demands upon the gentleman 
of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, if, before I 
enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. 

Miss Richland. The precaution was very un- 
necessary, sir. I suppose your wants were only 
such as my agent had power to satisfy. 

Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also 
willing you should be fully apprised of the charac- 
ter of the gentleman you intended to serve. 

Miss Richland. It must come, sii-, witli a very 
ill grace from you. To censure it after what you 
have done, would look like malice ; and to speak 
favourably of a character you have oppressed, would 
be impeaching your own. And sure, his tender- 
ness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may 
atone for many faults. 

Sir William. That friendship, madam, which 
is exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally 
useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disap- 
pears when diffused too widely. They, who pre- 
tend most to this universal benevolence, are either 
deceivers, or dupes : men who desire to cover their 
private ill-nature, by a pretended regard for all ; or 
men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, 
are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of 
useful virtues. 

Miss Richland. 1 am surprised, sir, to hear one, 
who has probably been a gainer by the folly of 
others, so severe in his censure of it. 

Sir William. Whatever I may have gained by 
folly, madam, you see I am willing to prevent your 
losing by it. 

Miss Richland. Your cares f(3r me, sir, are un- 
necessary. I always suspect those services which 
are denied where they are wanted, and offered, per- 
haps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions 
have been given, and I insist upon their being com- 
plied with. 

Sir William. Thou amiable woman ! I can no 
longer contain the expressions of my gratitude, my 
pleasure. You see before you one, who has been 
equally careful of his interest ; one, who has for 
some time been a concealed spectator of his follies, 
and only punished in hopes to reclaim him — his 
uncle ! 

Miss Richland. Sir William Honeywood ! You 
amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion'? I 
fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in 
my services. I confess I — 

Sir William. Don't make any apologies, ma- 
dam. I only find myself unable to repay the obli- 



180 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



gation. And yet, I have been trying my interest 
of late to serve you. Having learnt, madam, that 
you had some demands upon Government, I have, 
though unasked, been your solicitor there. 

Aliss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to 
your intentions. But my guardian has employed 
another gentleman, who assures him of success. 

Sir William. Who, the important httle man 
that visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite 
contemptible among men in power, and utterly 
unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are 
much better known to people of fashion, than his 
person, I assure you. 

Miss Richland. How have we been deceived ! 
As sure as can be here he comes. 

Sir William. Does he? Remember I'm to con- 
tinue unknown. My return to England has not 
as yet been made public. With what impudence 
he enters! 

Enter LOFTY. 



Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive ofT; 
I'll visit to his grace's in a chair. Miss Richland 
here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls 
of humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of 
this kind should happen, especially to a man I have 
shown every where, and carried amongst us as a 
particular acquaintance. 

Miss Richland. I find, sir, you have the art of 
making the misfortunes of others your own. 

Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man 
Eke me do? One man can't do every thing; and 
then, I do so much in this way every day : — Let 
me see ; something considerable might be done for 
him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried 
the list. I'll undertake to set down a brace of 
dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, 
at my own peril. 

Sir William. And, after all, it's more than pro- 
bable, sir, he might reject the ofi'er of such power- 
ful patronage. 

Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You 
know I never make promises. In truth, I once or 
twice tried to do something with him in the way of 
business ; but, as 1 often told his uncle. Sir Wil- 
liam Honeywood, the man was utterly impracti- 
cable. 

Sir William. His uncle ! then that gentleman, 
I suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 

Lofty. Meaning me, sir? — Yes, madam, as I 
often said, my dear Sir William, you are sensible 
I would do any thing, as far as my poor interest 
goes, to serve your family : but what can be done? 
there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate 
abilities. 

Miss Richland. I have heard of Sir William 
Honeywood; he's abroad in employment : he con- 
fided in your judgment, I suppose? 

Lufty. W hy, yes, madam, 1 believe Sir William 



had some reason to confide in my judgment ; one 
little reason, perhaps. 

Miss Richland. Pray, sir, what was it? 

Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no farther — 
it was I procured him his place. 

Sir William. Did you, sir ? 

Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 

Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind 
indeed. 

Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some 
amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast- 
master to a club, or had a better head. 

Miss Richland. A better head 1 

Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as 
dull as a choice spirit : but, hang it, he was grate- 
ful, very grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude 
of faults. 

Sir William. He might have reason, perhaps. 
His place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 

Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of 
business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill 
up a greater. 

Sir William. Dignity of person, do you mean, 
sir? I'm told he's much about my size and figure, 



Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; 
but then he wanted a something — a consequence 
of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives 
my meaning. 

Miss Richland. O, perfectly ; you courtiers can 
do any thing, I see. 

Lofiy. My dear madam, all this is but a mere 
exchange ; we do greater things for one another 
every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose 
you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an em- 
ployment in you that I want ; I have a place in 
me that you want ; do me here, do you there : in- 
terest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, 
and it's over. 

Sir William. A thought strikes me. [4sicZe.] 
Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, ma- 
dam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, 
you'll be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy ; I 
had it from a friend who knows him as well as he 
does me, and you may depend on my information. 

Lofty. The devil he is ! If I had known that, 
we should not have been quite so well acquainted. 

[Aside. 

Sir William. He is certainly returned ; and as 
this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of 
signal service to us, by introducing me to him ; 
there are some papers relative to your aflfairs that 
require dispatch, and his inspection. 

Miss Richland. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is 
a person employed in my affairs: I know you'll 
serve us. 

Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
proper to command it. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



181 



Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary. 

Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call 
upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 

Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be 
lost for ever. 

Lioftij. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. 
But damn it, that's unfortunate ; my Lord Grig's 
cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour, 
and I'm engaged to attend — another time — 

Sir William. A short letter to Sir William will 
do. 

Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a 
letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to 
face, that's my way. 

Sir William, The letter, sir, will do quite as 
well. 

Lofty. Zounds! siy, do you pretend to direct 
me 1 direct me in the busmess of office 7 Do you 
know me, sir 7 who am I? 

Miss Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is 
not so much his as mine; if my commands — but 
you -despise my power. 

Lofty. Delicate creature! your commands could 
even control a debate at midnight : to a power so 
constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. 
He shall have a letter: where is my secretary? 
Dubardieu? And yet, I protest I don't like this 
way of doing business. I think if I spoke first 
to Sir WiUiam — But you will have it so. 

[Exit with Miss Richland. 

Sir William [alone.l Ha, ha, ha! — This too is 
one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity, 
thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to 
exalt, serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings, 
hke those employed to heighten beauty, only seem 
to mend that bloom which they contribute to de- 
stroy. I'm not displeased at this interview: ex- 
posing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it 
deserves, may be of use to my design ; at least, if he 
can reflect, it will be of use to himself. 

Enter JARVIS. 

Sir William. How now, Jarvis, where's your 
master, my nephew 1 

Jarvis. At his wit's ends, I believe: he's scarce 
gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his head 
into another. 

Sir William. How so? 

Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of 
the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth and 
nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a 
clandestine match with the young lady that passes 
in the house for his sister. 

Sir William. Ever busy to serve others. 

Jarvis. Ay, any body but himself. The young 
couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland; 
and he supplies them with money for the journey. 

Sir William. Money ! how is he able to supply 
others, who has scarce any for himself? 



Jarvis. Why, there it is: he has no money, 
that's true; but then, as he never said No to any 
request in his life, he has given them a bill, drawn 
by a friend of his upon a merchant in the city, 
which I am to get changed ; for you must know 
that I am to go with them to Scotland myself. 

Sir William. How? 

Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged 
to take a different road from his mistress, as he is 
to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the 
way, in order to prepare a place for their reception 
when they return ; so they have borrowed me from 
my master, as the properest person to attend the 
young lady dovsTi. 

Sir William. To the land of matrimony? A 
pleasant journey, Jarvis. 

Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues 
on't. 

Sir William. Well, it may be shorter, and less 
fatiguing, than you imagine. I know but too 
much of the young lady's family and connexions, 
whom I have seen abroad. I have also discovered 
that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thought- 
less nephev/; and will endeavour, though I fear in 
vain, to establish that connexion. But, come, the 
letter I wait for must be almost finished; I'll let 
you further into my intentions in the next room. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE CROAKEE'S HOUSE. 

Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for 
running my head into such defiles, as nothing but 
a genius hke my own could draw me from. I was 
formerly contented to husband out my places and 
pensions with some degree of frugality; but, curse 
it, of late I have given away the whole Court Re- 
gister in less time than they could print the title- 
page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come 
at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for 
nothing. Ha! Honey wood here before me. Could 
Miss Richland have set him at liberty? 

Enter HONETWOOD. 

Mr. Honey wood, I'm glad to see you abroad 
again. I find my concurrence was not necessary 
in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in a 
train to do your business; but it is not for me to 
say what I intended doing. 

Honeywood. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. 
But what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you 
seem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I my- 
self continue still a stranger to my benefactor. 

Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served 
you? 

Honeywood. Can't guess at the person. 

Lofty. Inquire. 



182 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Honeywood. I have; but all I can learn is, that 
he chooses to remain concealed, and that all in- 
quiry must be fruitless. 
Lofty. Must be fruitless ! 
Honeyicood. Absolutely fruitless. 
Lofty. Sure of that 7 

Honeyioood. Very sure. 
Lofty. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever 
know it from me. 

Honeyioood. How, sir? 
Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you 
think my rent-roll very considerable, and that 1 
have vast sums of money to throw away ; I know 
you do. The world, to be sure, says such things 
of me. 

Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no 
stranger to your generosity. But where does this 
tend 7 

Lofty. To nothing; nothing in the world. The 
town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as 
me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that 
I never yet patronised a man of merit. 

Honeywood. I have heard instances to the con- 
trary, even from yourself. 

Lofty. Yes, Honeywood; and there are in- 
stances to the contrary, that you shall never hear 
from myself. 

Honeyv}ood: Ha! dear sir, permit me to ask you 
but one question. 

Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask 
me no questions ; I'll be damn'd if I answer them. 

Honeywood. I will ask no further. My friend ! 
my benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am in- 
debted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou wor- 
thiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, 
but was afraid to return thanks; which, if unde- 
served, might seem reproaches. 

Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, 
Mr. Honeywood : you treat me very cavalierly. I 
do assure you, sir — Blood, sir, can't a man be per- 
mitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feehngs, 
without all this parade? 

Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an 
action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your 
air, your manner, all confess it. 

Lofty. Confess it, sir! torture itself, sir, shall 
never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I 
have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't 
let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be 
buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation; 
you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you 
know I always loved to be a friend, and not a pa- 
tron. I beg this may make no kind of distance 
between us. Come, come, you and I must be 
more familiar — Indeed we must. 

Honeywood. Heavens! Can lever repay such 
friendship? Is there any way?— Thou best of men, 
can I ever return the obligation? 

Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle! But I see 



your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall 
be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. 

Honeywood. How! teach me the manner. Is 
there any way ? 

Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, 
my friend, you shall know it — I'm in love. 

Honeywood. And can I assist you? 

Lofty. Nobody so well. 

Honeywood. In what manner? I'm all impa- 
tience. 

Lofty. You shall make love for me. 

Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
favour ? 

Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great in- 
terest, I assure you ; Miss Richland. 

Honeyioood. Miss Richland! 

Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck 
the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 

Honeywood. Heavens! was ever any thing more 
unfortunate ? It is too much to be endured. 

Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed! And yet can I en- 
dure it, till you have opened the affair to her for 
me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm 
not apt to boast, but I think she does. 

Honeywood. Indeed ! but do you know the per- 
son you apply to ? 

Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : 
that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the 
success of my passion. I'll say no more, let friend- 
ship do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any 
time my little interest can be of service — but, hang 
it, I'U make no promises — you know my interest is 
yours at any time. No apologies, my friend, I'll 
not be answered ; it shall be so. [Exit. 

Honeyioood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man! 
He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such 
an ardent passion ! — But then it was ever hut a 
vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecu- 
tion ! What shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a hope- 
less passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that has 
been my tormentor ; a friend that has, perhaps, dis- 
tressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, 
I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, 
and exert all my influence in his favour. And 
yet to see her in the possession of another ! — In- 
supportable ! But then to betray a generous, trust- 
ing friend ! — Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm resolved. 
Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, 
and then quit a country, where I must for ever de- 
spair of finding my own. [Exit. 

Enter OLIVIA, and GARNET, who carries a milliner's box. 

Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
No news of Jarvis yet? I beUeve the old peevish 
creature delays purely to vex me. 

Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear 
him say, a little snubbing before marriage would 
teach you to bear it the better afterwards. 

Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



183 



only to get a bill changed in the city ! How pro- 
voking. 

Garnet. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
twice as much to do, is setting off by this time 
from his inn ; and here you are left behind. 

Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing. 
Garnet ? 

Garnet. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet 
I wish you would take the white and silver to be 
married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in 
any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs of 
our town that was married in red ; and, as sure as 
eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff 
before morning. 

Olivia. No matter. I'm all impatience till we 
are out of the house. 

Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot 
the wedding ring ! — The sweet little thing — I don't 
think it would go on my little finger. And what 
if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of ne- 
cessity, madam 1 — But here's Jarvis. 

Enter JARVIS. 

Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last 7 We 
have been ready this half hour. Now let's be go- 
ing. Let us fly ! 

Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho; for we shall have no 
going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 

Olivia. How ! what's the matter*? 

Jarvis. Money, money, is the matter, madam. 
We have got no money. What the plague do you 
•send me of your fool's errand for? My master's bill 
upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. 
-Garnet may pin up her hair with it. 

Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve 
us so ? What shall we do ? Can't we go without it? 

Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To 
Scotland without money ! Lord, how some people 
understand geography ! We might as well set sail 
for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. 

Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base 
insincere man was 3'our master, to serve us in this 
manner ! Is this his good-nature 1 

Jarvis Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam. 
I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but 
myself 

Garnet. Bless us! now I think on't, madam, you 
need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. 
Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just 
before he set out, and be can't yet have left the inn. 
A short letter will reach him there. 

Glicia. Well remembered, Garnet ; I'll write 
immediately. How's this! Bless me, my hand 
trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write, 
Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be bet- 
ter from you. 

Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but 
pQorl3^ I never was 'cute at my learning. But 



I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All 
out of my own head, I suppose ! 

Olivia. Whatever you please. 

Garnet [writing.] Muster Croaker — Twenty 
guineas, madam? 

Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 

Garnet. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. 
Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame — 
GLuick dispatch — Cupid, the little god of love. — I 
conclude it, madam, with Cupid: I love to see a 
love-letter end like poetry. 

Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing. 
But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the 
servants of this family. 

Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood' s but- 
ler is in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man, 
he'll do any thing for me. 

Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some 
blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. 

Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we 
can trust will do. [E.vit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, 
now we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; 
you may take up the things, and carry them on to 
the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? 

Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that 
are going to be married, think things can never be 
done too fast ; but we, that are olJ, and know what 
we are about, must elope methodically, madam. 

Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to 
be done over again 

Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten 
times over. 

Olivia. Why will you talk so? If you knew 
how unhappy they made me 

Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once 
just as unhappy when I was going to be married 
myself. I'll tell you a story about that 

Olivia. A story! when I'm all impatience to be 
away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! — 

Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why 
we will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we 
have still forgot one thing : we should never travel 
without — a case of good razors, and a box of shav- 
ing powder. But no matter, I beheve we shall be 
pretty well shaved by the way. [Going. 

Enter GARNET. 

Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. 
Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death, 
Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler drop- 
ped the letter before he went ten yards from the 
door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, 
and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall. 

Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 

Garnet. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can 
make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he 
looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about 
it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O 
lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors! 



184 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant, 
for fear he should ask further questions. In the 
mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just 
such another. [Exeunt. 

Enter CROAKER. 

Croaker. Death and destruction! Are all the 
horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at 
me'? Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder- 
plots, combustibles and conflagration 1 Here it is- 
An incendiary letter dropped at my door. " To 
Muster Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay, 
plain enough the direction : all in the geniaine 
incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. 
" With speed." O, confound your speed. But 
let me read it once more. [Reads.\ "Muster 
Croaker, as sone as yowe see this, leve twenty 
guineas at the bar of the Talboot tell called for, or 
yowe and yower experetiou will be all blown up." 
Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every 
line of it. Blown up ! Murderous dog ! All blown 
up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family 
done, to be all blowir up? [Reads. ^ "Our pockets 
are low, and money we must have." Ay, there'.s 
the reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have 
got low pockets. [Reads.'] "It is but a short time 
you have to consider ; for if this takes wind, the 
house will quickly be ail of a flame." Inhuman 
monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ! The 
earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. 
[Reads.] " Make quick dispatch, and so no more 
at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, 
go with you wherever you go." The little god of 
love ! Cupid, the little god of love go with me ! — Go 
you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together. 
I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, 
stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading 
on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels 
of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me 
up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt 
in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds. 



the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept 
the family a week upon potatoes. 

Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. 
But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when 
I should be facing the enemy without ? Here, John, 
Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cel- 
lars, to see if there be any combustibles below; 
and above, in the apartments, that no matches be 
thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put 
out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, 
to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. 
Miss Richland [alone.] What can he mean by 
all this 7 Yet why should I inquire, when he 
alarms us in this manner almost every day. But 
Honeywood has desired an interview with me in 
private. What can he mean? or rather, what 
means this palpitation at his approach 7 It is the 
first time he ever showed any thing in his conduct 
that seemed particular. Sure he can not mean to 
but he's here. 



Enter HONEYWOOD. 



Enter MISS RICHLAND, 

Miss Richland. Lord, sir, what's the matter? 

Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all 
blown up in our beds before morning. 

Miss Richland. I hope not, sir. 

Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
when I have a certificate of it here hi my hand ? 
Will nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eat- 
ing, sleeping and eating is the only work from 
morning till night in my house. My insensible 
crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake, 
and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. 

Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them 
so often already; we have nothing but earthquakes, 
famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end 
to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above 



Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview 
madam, before I left town, to be permitted 

Miss Richland. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir ? — ■ 

Honeywood. Yes, madam; perhaps the king- 
dom. I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour 
of this interview, — in order to disclose something 
which our long friendship prompts. And yet my 
fears 

Miss Richland. His fears ! What are his fears 
to mine ! [^sicZe.] We have indeed been long ac- 
quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our first 
meeting was at the French ambassador's. — Do you 
recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon 
my complexion there ? 

Honeyii-ood. Perfectly, madam; I presumed to 
reprove you for pai7iting ; but your warmer blushes 
soon convinced the company, that the colouring 
was all from nature. 

Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in 
your good-natured way, to make me pay a compU- 
ment to myself. In the same manner you danced 
that night with the most awkward woman in com- 
pany, because you saw nobody else would take her 
out. 

Honeyicood. Yes, and was rewarded the next 
night, by dancing with the finest woman in com- 
pany, whom every body wished to take out. 

Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so 
then, 1 fear your judgment has since corrected the 
errors of a first impression. We generally show 
to most advantage at first. Our sex are hke poor 
tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen 
at the windows. 

Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did 
indeed deceive me. 1 expected to find a woman 
with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty : I 



a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among | expected to find her vain and insolent. But every 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



185 



day has since taught me, that it is possible to pos- 
sess sense without pride, and beauty without aifec- 
tation. 

Miss Richland. This, sir, is a style very unusual 
with Mr. Honey wood ; and I should be glad to 
know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, 
which his own lessons have taught me to despise. 

Honeywood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from 
our long friendship, I presumed I might have some 
right to offer, without ofiencc, what you may re- 
fuse, without offending. 

Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though, 
I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a 
request of yours, yet you may be precipitate : con- 
sider, sir. 

Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead 
the cause of friendship, of one who loves — Don't 
be alarmed, madam — who loves you with the most 
ardent passion, whose whole happiness is placed in 
you 

Miss Richland. I fear, sir, I shall never find 
whom you mean, by this description of him. 

Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly 
points him out ; though he should be too humble 
himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest 
to understand them. 

Miss Richland. Well; it would be affectation 
any longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, 
sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It 
was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as 
he seemed himself ignorant of its value. 

Honeywood. I see she always loved him. [jl«tZe.] 
I find, madam, you're already sensible of his worth, 
his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the 
favourite of one with such sense to distinguish 
merit, and such beauty to reward it. 

Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! What friend! 

Honeywood. My best friend — my friend Mr. 
Lofty, madam. 

Miss Richland. He, sir! 

Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, 
what your warmest wishes might have formed him; 
and to his other qualities he adds that of the most 
passionate regard for you. 

Miss Richland. Amazement ! — No more of this, 
I beg you, sir. 

Honeywood. 1 see your confusion, madam, and 
know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly 
read the language of your heart, shall I make my 
friend happy, by communicating your sentiments? 

Miss Richland. By no means. 

Honeywood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you 
desire it. 

Miss Richland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell 
you, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself 
When I first applied to your friendship, I expected 
advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is 
in vain to expect happiness from him who has been 
BO bad an economist of his own ; and that I must 



disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to 
himself. [Exit. 

Honeywood. How is this ! she has confessed she 
loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displea- 
sure. Can I have done any thing to reproach my- 
self with 7 No ; I believe not : yet after all, these 
things should not be done by a third person : I 
should have spared her confusion. My friendship 
carried me a little too far. 

Enter CROAKER, with the letter in his hand, and MRS. 
CROAKER. 

Mrs. Croaker. Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, 
it's your supreme wish that I should be quite 
wretched upon this occasion? ha! ha! 

Croaker [Mimicking]. Ha! ha! ha! And so, 
my dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no 
better consolation! 

Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear ; what is this 
incendiary stuff and trumpery to me 7 our house 
may travel through the air like the house of Loret- 
to, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable in it. 

Croaker. Would to Heaven it were converted 
into a house of correction for your benefit. Have 
we not every thing to alarm us 7 Perhaps this very 
moment the tragedy is beginning. 

Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress 
till the rising of the curtain, or give them the mo- 
ney they want, and have done with them. 

Croaker. Give them my money! — And pray, 
what right have they to my money? 

Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right then have 
you to my good-himiour7 

Croaker. And so your good-humour advises me 
to part with my money 7 Why then, to tell your 
good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part 
with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, see what 
he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this 
incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze 
you with terror ; and yet lovey here can read it — 
can read it, and laugh. 

Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honey- 
wood. 

Croaker. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the 
next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. 

Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there 
any thing more foolish than my husband's fright 
upon this occasion? 

Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, 
madam ; but doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
now will but invite them to renew their villany 
another time. 

Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 

Croaker. How, sir! do you maintain that I 
should he down under such an injury, and show, 
neither by my tears nor complaints, that I have 
something of the spirit of a man in me 7 

'Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to 
make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. 



186 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



The surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in 
the pursuit of it. 

Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now 7 
Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laugh- 
ing oif our fears is the best way ? 

Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can 
say; but I'll maintain it to be a -very wise way. 

■ Croaker. But we're talking of the best. Surely 
the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and 
not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. 

Honeywood. Why sir, as to the best, that — 
that's a very wise way too. 

Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing be more ab- 
surd, than to double our distresses by our appre- 
hensivins, and put it in the power of every low fel- 
low, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, 
to torment us. 

Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more ab- 
surd. 

Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to 
despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake 7 

HoneyiDood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 

Croaker. Then you are of my opinion 1 

Honeywood. Entirely. 

M7-S. Croaker. And you reject mine? 

Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No sure, 
no reasoning can be more just than yours. We 
ought certainly to despise mahce if we can not op- 
pose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal 
to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. 

Mrs. Croaker. O! then you think I'm quite 
right. 

Honeywood. Perfectly right. 

Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both 
right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. 
My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off". 

Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opin- 
ions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't 
be perfectly right. 

Honeywood. And why may not both be right, 
madam? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, 
and you in waiting the event with good-humour ? 
Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it. This 
letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar 
of the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary 
letter, what if you and I, sir, go there ; and when 
the writer comes to be paid for his expected booty, 
seize him. 

Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing ; 
the very thing. While I walk b}' the door, you 
shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst ; 
out upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; ex- 
tort a confession at once, and so hang him up by 
surprise. 

Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to ex- 
ercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
crimes generally punish themselves. 

Croaker. Well, but we maj' upbraid him a little, 
I suppose ? [Ironically. \ 



Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 

Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own be- 
nevolence. 

Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that 
universal benevolence is the first law of nature. 
[E.reunt Honeyioood and Mrs. Croaker. 

Croaker. Yes; and my universal benevolence 
will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a 
hydra. 



ACT V 



SCENE — AN INN. 



Enter OLIVL\, JAllMS. 



Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, 
however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready — 

Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; 
and, as they are not going to be married, they 
choose to take their own time. 

Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives 
to my impatience. 

Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses 
must taJvC their own time ; besides, you don't con- 
sider we have got no answer from our fellow tra- 
veller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, 
we have only one way left us. 

Olivia. What way? 

Jarvis. The way home again. 

Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, 
and nothing shall induce me to break it. 

Jarvis. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when 
they jump with inclination. However, I'll go 
hasten things without. And I'll call, too, at the 
bar, to see if any thing should be left for us there. 
Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and wc 
shall go the faster, I promise you. [E.vit Jarvis. 

Enter LANDLADY. 

Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you 
move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. — 
Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick. 
The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. 
Did your ladyship call, madam? 

Olivia. No, madam. 

Landlady. I find as you're for Scotland, madam, 
— But that's no business of mine; married, or not 
married, I ask no questions. To be sure we had 
a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago 
for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, 
was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew 
froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bash- 
ful, it was near half an hour before we could get 
her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. 

Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going 
to be married, I assure you. 

Landlady. May-be not. That's no business of 
mine; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



187 



out. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Mac- 
fag, that married her father's footman — Alack-a- 
day, she and her husband soon parted, and now 
keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane. 

Olivia. A very pretty picture of what lies before 
me ! [Aside. 

Enter LEONTINE. 

Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you 
were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I 
could not help coming to see you set out. though it 
exposes us to a discovery. 

Olivia. May every thing you do prove as fortu- 
nate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cru- 
elly disappointed. Mr. Honey wood's bill upon the 
city has, it seems, been protested, and we have 
been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 

Leontine. How! an offer of his own too. Sure, 
he could not mean to deceive us 7 

Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- 
took the desire for the power of serving us. But 
let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise 
is ready by this. 

Landlady. Not quite yet; and, begging your 
ladyship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship quite 
ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold 
place, madam. I have a drop in the house of as 
pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just 
a thimble-full to keep the wind off your stomach. 
To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said 
it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, 1 sent them both 
away as good-natured — Up went the blinds, round 
went the wheels, and drive away post-boy was the 
word. 

Enter CROAKER. 

Croaker. Well, while my friend Honeywood is 
upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my 
business to have an eye about me here. I think I 
know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil 
makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. 
Ha ! who have we here 1 My son and daughter 
What can they be doing here ? 

Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you 
good ; I think I know by this time what's good for 
the north road. It's a raw night, madam. — Sir — 

Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I 
should now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten 
the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. 

Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solo- 
mon ! are you all dead there 7 Wha, Solomon, I 
say ! [Exit, bawling. 

Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun 
in fear, should end in repentance. — Every moment 
we stay increases our danger, and adds to my ap- 
prehensions. 

Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; 
there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with 
honotar, and kept my father, as he promised, in 



employment till we are out ot danger, nothing can 
interrupt our journey. 

Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood' s 
sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My 
fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind 
so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be 
but too ready when there's a reason. 

Leontine. Why let him when we are out of his 
power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great 
reason to dread his resentment. His repining tem- 
per, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so 
will it never do harm to others. He only frets to 
keep himself employed, and scolds for his private 
amusement. 

Olivia. I don't know that; but, I'm sure, on 
some occasions it makes him look most shockingly. 

Croaker [discovering himself.\ How does he 
look now? — How does he look now 7 

Olivia. Ah! 

Leontine. Undone. 

Croaker. How do I look now 7 Sir, I am your 
very humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What, 
you are going off, are you 7 Then, first, if you 
please, take a word or two from me with you before 
you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and 
when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know 
as little as I did before. 

Leontine. If that bo so, our answer might but 
increase your displeasure, without adding to your 
information. 

Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy : 
and you too, good madam, what answer have you 
got 7 Eh! [A cry iBithout, stop him.] I think I 
heard a noise. My friend Honeywood without — 
has he seized the incendiary 7 Ah, no, for now 
I hear no more on't. 

Leontine. Honeywood without! Then, sir, it 
was Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither 7 

Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood con- 
ducted me hither. 

Leontine. Is it possible 7 

Croaker. Possible ! Why lip's in the house now, 
sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 

Leontine. Then, sir, he's a villain. 

Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
most care of your father 7 I'll not bear it. I tell 
you I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the 
family, and I'll have him treated as such. 

Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship 
as it deserves. 

Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly 
he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means 
to detect them, you would love him as I do. [A 
cry without, stop him.'] Fire and fury ! they have 
seized the incendiary : they have the villain, the 
incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop an incendia- 
ry ! a murderer ! stop him ! [Exit. 

Olivia. O, my terrors ! What can this tumult 
mean 7 



188 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. 
Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satis- 
faction : he shall give me instant satisfaction. 

Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you 
value my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be 
our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes- 
Consider that our innocence will shortly be all that 
we have left us. You must forgive him. 

Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every 
instance betrayed us 1 Forced to borrow money 
from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us; 
promised to keep my father engaged till we were 
out of danger, and here brought him to the very 
scene of our escape 1 

Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be 
mistaken. 

Enter POSTBOY, dragging in JARVIS; HONEYWOOD 

entering soon after. 

Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the 
reward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the 
money at the bar, and then run for it. 

Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us 
see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. 
[Discovering his mistake.] Death! what's here? 
Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean? 
Jar vis. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that 
I was an old fool, and that you are my master — 
that's all. 

Honeywood. Confusion ! 

Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your 
word with me. After such baseness, I wonder 
how you can venture to see the man you have in- 
jured? 

Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my 
honour — 

Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not 
continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. 1 
know you, sir, I know you. 

Honeywood. Why won't you hear me ? By all 
that's just, I know not — 

Leontine. Hear you, sir, to what purpose? 1 
now see through all your low arts; your ever com- 
plying with every opinion; your never refusing 
any request: your friendship's as common as a 
prostitute's favours, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, 
have long been contemptible to the world, and are 
now perfectly so to me. 

Honeywood. Ha! contemptible to the world! 
that reaches me. [Aside. 

Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your 
professions, I now find, were only allurements to 
betray; and all your seeming regret for their con- 
sequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice 
of your heart. Draw, villain ! 

Enter CROAKER, out of breath. 

Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the 



incendiary? [Seizing the Postboy.] Hold him 
fast, the dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come, 
you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang yourself 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle 
me for? 

Croaker [beating him.] Dog, do you resist ? do 
you resist ? 

Postboy. Zounds! master, I'm not he: there's 
the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns 
out to be one of the company. 

Croaker. How! 

Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been un- 
der a strange mistake here; I find there is nobody 
guilty ; it was all an error; entirely an error of our 
own. 

Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in an error ; 
for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned 
Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof 
of it. 

Honeywood. Do but hear me. 

Croaker. What, you intend to bring 'em off, I 
suppose? I'll hear nothing. 

Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm 
enough to hear reason. 

Olivia. Excuse me. 

Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it 
to you. 

Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the 
thing is done ? 

Honeywood. Will nobody hear me? Was tliere 
ever such a set, so blinded by passion and preju- 
dice! [To the Postboy.] My good friend, I be- 
lieve, you'll be surprised when I assure you — 

Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing 
but a good beating. 

Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever 
hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincere- 
ly all you know of this affair. 

Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the 
cause of your suspicions : you see before you, sir, 
one that with false pretences has stepped into your 
family to betray it ; not your daughter — 

Croaker. Not my daughter ? 

Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean de- 
ceiver — who — support me, I can not — 

Honeywood. Help, she's going; give her air. 

Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whosever 
daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. 
[Exeunt all but Croaker. 
Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the 
whole affair ; my son is either married, or going to 
be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as 
his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find 
it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's 
the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes be- 
forehand, we never feel them when they come. 
Enter MISS RICHLAND and SIR WILLIAM. 
Sir William. But how do you know, madam 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



189 



that my nephew intends setting off from this 
place ') 

Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was 
come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his in- 
tending to leave the kingdom suggested the rest. 
But what do I see! my guardian here before us! 
Who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting 
you here ? to what accident do we owe this plea- 
sure 1 

Croaker. To a fool, I believe. 

Miss Richland. But to what purpose did you 
come? 

Croaker. To play the fool. 

Miss Richland. But with whom 1 

Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 

Miss Richland. Explain. 

Croaker. Why, Mr. Honejrwood brought me 
here to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is 
going to be married to I don't know who, that is 
here : so now you are as wise as I am. 

Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir 7 

Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her 
to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter 
she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. 

Sir William. Then, sir, I can iniorm you ; and, 
though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend 
to your family. It will be enough, at present, to 
assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune 
the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being 
left by her father. Sir James Woodville — 

Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the 
west 7 

Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the 
care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was 
to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent to 
France, under pretence of education; and there 
every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, 
contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was inform- 
ed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been 
once her father's friend, 1 did all in my power to 
frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had 
even meditated to rescue her from his authority, 
when your son stepped in with more pleasing vio- 
lence, gave her hberty, and you a daughter. 

Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose for- 
tune, by my interest with those who have interest, 
will be double what my son has a right to expect. 
Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir? 

Sir William. Yes, sir ; and know that you are 
deceived in him. But step this way, and I'll con- 
vince you. 

[Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 

Enter HONEYWOOD. 

Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in 
his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I 
now begin to grow contemptible even to myself. 
How have I sunk by too great an assiduity to 



please ! How have I over-taxed all my abilities, 
lest the approbation of a single fool should escape 
me ! But aU is now over ; I have survived my repu- 
tation, my fortune, my friendsliips, and nothing 
remains henceforward for me but sohtude and re- 
pentance. 

Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that 
you are setting off, without taking leave of your 
friends? The report is, that you are quitting En- 
gland: Can it be? 

Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so 
unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure, 
yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness ; to 
one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one 
who has power to procure you affluence, and gene- 
rosity to improve your enjoyment of it. 

Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the 
gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? 

Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — 
his serving me. He does indeed deserve the high- 
est happiness, and that is in your power to confer. 
As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, 
obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what 
happiness can I find but in solitude ? what hope, 
but in being forgotten? 

Miss Richland. A thousand! to live among 
friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be 
to be permitted to oblige you. 

Honeywood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. 
Inferiority among strangers is easy; but among 
those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, 
to show you how far my resolution can go, I can 
now speak with calmness of my former follies, my 
vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even 
confess, that, among the number of my other pre- 
sumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving 
you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the pas- 
sion of another, my heart was tortured with its 
own. But it is over; it was unworthy our friend- 
ship, and let it be forgotten. 

Miss Richland. You amaze me! 

Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I know you 
will; since the confession should not have come 
from me even now, but to convince you of the sin- 
cerity of my intention of — never mentioning it 
more. [Going. 

Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha 5 
he here— 

Enter LOFTY. 

Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends? I 
have followed you here with a trifling piece of in- 
telligence ; but it goes no farther, things are not yet 
ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a 
certain board ; your aflair at the treasury will be 
done in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! 

Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 

Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls 
into proper hands, that know where to push and 



190 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



where to parry ; that know how the land hes — eh, 
Honey wood 1 
Miss Richland. It has fallen into yours. 
Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
your thing is done. It is done, I say— that's all. 
I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, 
that the claim has been examined, and found ad- 
missible. Quietus is the word, madam. 

Honeywood. But how 7 his lordship has been at 
Newmarket these ten days. 

Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must 
have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of 
him. 

Miss Richland. He ! why Sir Gilbert and his 
fiimily have been in the country this month. 

Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — 
Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from New- 
market, so that he must have met his lordship there; 
and so it came about. I have his letter about me; 
I'll read it to you. [ Taking out a large bundle.] 
That's from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Mar- 
quis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to see a letter 
from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? — 

Honest Pon [Searching.] O, sir, what are you 

here too 1 I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you 
have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir Wil- 
liam Honeywood, you may return it. The thing 
■will do without him. 

Sir V/illiam. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must 
inform you, it was received with the most mortify- 
ing contempt. 

Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
mean? 

Lofly. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. 
You'll find it come to something presently. 

Sir William. Yes, sir; I believe you'll be 
amazed, if after waiting some lime in the ante- 
chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curi- 
osity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, 
that Sir William Honeywood knew no such per- 
son, and 1 must certainly have been imposed upon. 
Lofty. Good! let ine die; very good. Ha! ha! 
ha! 

Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half 
the goodness of it. 

ivo/ii/. You can't. Ha! ha! 
Croaker. No, for the soul of me! I think it was 
as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from 
one private gentleman to another. 

Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 
message ? Why, 1 was in the house at that very 
time. Ha! ha! It was I that sent that very an- 
swer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 
Croaker. Indeed! How? Why? 
Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William 
and me must be behind the curtain. A party has 
many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, 1 side 
with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the 
mystery. 



Croaker. And so it does, indeed ; and all my sus- 
picions are over. 

Lofty. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have 
been suspecting, 3'ou have been suspecting, have 
you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends ; we 
are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over; 
I say, it's over. 

Croaker. As 1 hope for your favour I did not 
mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discom- 
posed. 

Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and 
will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who 
am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by 
ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, 
and praised in the St. James's? have 1 been chaired 
at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant-Tailor's 
Hall ? have I had my hand to addresses, and my 
head in the print-shops ; and talk to me of suspects? 

Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can 
)'ou have but asking pardon ? 

Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects! 
Who am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court 
to men in favour to serve my friends ; the lords of 
the treasury. Sir William Honeywood, and the 
rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ? Who 
am I, I say, who am I? 

Sir William. Since, sir, you are so pressing for 
an answer, I'll tell you who you are: — A gentle- 
man, as well acquainted with politics as with men 
in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fash- 
ion as with modesty ; with lords of the treasury as 
with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir Wil- 
liam Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood. 
[Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. 

Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 

Honeywood. Astonishment! my uncle! [Aside. 

Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been 
all this time only leading me up to the garret, in 
order to fling me out of the window. 

Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these 
your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been 
dreaded by the ins and outs; you, who have had 
your hands to addresses, and your head stuck up 
in print-shops. If you were served right, you 
should have your head stuck up in a pillory. 

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will; for by tha 
lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks 
at present. 

Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you 
now see how incapable this gentleman is of serv- 
ing you, and how little Miss Richland has to ex- 
pect from his influence. 

Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't 
but say I have had some boding of it these ten 
days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed 
his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be 
satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard ot 
another Mr. Lofly in helping him to a better. 

Sir William. I approve your resolution; and 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



191 



here they come to receive a confirmaticD of your 
pardon and consent. 

Enter MRS. CROAKER, JARVIS, I,EONTINE, and 
uLniA. 

Mrs. Croaker. Where's my husband? Come, 
come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here 
has been to tell me the whole aflair; and I say, you 
must forgive them. Our owrn was a stolen match, 
you know, my dear; and we never had any reason 
to repent of it. 

Croaker. I wish we could both say so. Howev- 
er, this gentleman. Sir AVilliam Honeywood, has 
been beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. 
So if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I 
think we can taok them together without crossing 
the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. 

Leontine. How blest and unexpected! What, 
what can we say to such goodness? But our fu- 
ture obedience shall be the best reply. And as for 
this gentleman, to whom we owe 

Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 
[ Turning to Honeywood.'] Yes, sir, you are sur- 
prised to see me ; and I own that a desire of cor- 
recting your follies led me hither. I saw with in- 
dignation the errors of a mind that only sought ap- 
plause from others ; that easiness of disposition 
which, though inclined to the right, had not cou- 
rage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret 
those splendid errors, that still took name from 
some neighbouringduty ;yourcharity, thatwasbut 
injustice ; your benevolence, that was but weak- 
ness ; and your friendship but credulity. I saw 
with regret, great talents and extensive learning 
only employed to add sprigbtliness to error, and in- 
crease your perplexities. I saw your mind with 
a thousand natural charms ; but the greatness of its 
beauty served only to heighten my pity for its 
prostitution. 

Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir: I have 
for scine time but too strongly felt the justice of 
your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. 
!k~es, sir, 1 have determined this very hour to quit 
forever a place where I have made myself the volun- 
tary slave of all, and to seek among strangers that 
fortitude which may give strength to the mind, and 
marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet ere I de- 
part, permit me to solicit favour for this gentle- 
man; who, notwithstanding what has happened, 
has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. 
Lofty 

Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a re- 
formation as well as you. I now begin to find that 
the man who frst invented the art of speaking 
truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought 
him. And to prove that 1 design to speak truth 
for the future, 1 must now assure you, that you 
owe your late enlargement to another; as, upon 



my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So now, 
if any of the company has a mind for preferment, 
he may take my place; I'm determined to resign. 

[Exit. 

Honeyicood. How have I been deceived ! 

Sir William. No, sir, you have been obliged to 
a kinder, fairer friend, for that favour — to Miss 
Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make 
the man she has honoured by her friendship happy 
in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest 
as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can malie 
me. 

Miss Richland. After what is past it would be 
but affectation to pretend to indifi'erence. Yes, I 
will own an attachment, which I find was more 
than friendship. And if my entreaties can not alter 
his resolution to quit the country, I will even try 
if my hand has not power to detain him. [ Giving 
her hand.] 

Honeywood. Heavens ! how can I have deserved 
all this 7 How express my happiness, my gratitude? 
A moment like this overpays an age of apprehen- 
sion. 

Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; 
but Heaven send we be all better this day three 
months! 

Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to re- 
spect yourself. He who seeks only for a{)plause 
from without, has all his happiness in another's 
keeping. 

Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly per- 
ceive my errors ; my vanity in attempting to please 
all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in ap- 
proving folly lest fools should disapprove. Hence- 
forth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve j^iy 
pity for real distress ; my friendship for true merit; 
and my love for her, who first taught me what it 
is to be happy 



EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN BY MRS. EULKLEY. 

As puffing quacks some caitiff' wretch procure 
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; 
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend 
For epilogues and prologues on some friend. 
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
And make full many a bitter pill go down. 
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about. 
And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. 
An epilogue, things can't go on without it; 
It could not fail, would you but set about it. 



* The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at " 
Oxford, deferred writing one himself till itie veiy last hour. 
Wliat is liere offered, owes all its success to the gtaceful man- 
ner of the actress who spoke it. 



192 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS 



Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover,) 
Alas! young man, my writing days are over; 
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I; 
Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try. 
What, I! dear sir, the doctor interposes: 
What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses! 
No, no, I've other contests to maintain; 
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane. 
Go ask your manager— Who, me! Your pardon; 
Those things are not our forte at Covent-Garden. 
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, 
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 



As some unhappy wight at some new play, 
At the pit door stands elbowing away, 
While oft with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; 
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
But not a soul will budge to give him place. 
Since then, unhelp'd our bard must now conform 
"To 'bide the pelting of this pit' less storm." 
Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
And be each critic the Good-natured Man. 



SUOH m®®W^ ffl® ®®S©WSISB8 



THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 



AS'ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, CO VENT-GARDEN. 



DEDICATION. 
TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, L. L. D. 

Dkar Sir, 

By inscribing this slight performance to you, I 
do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. 
It may do me some honour to inform the public, 
that I have Uved many years in intimacy with you. 
It may serve the interests of mankind also to in- 
form them, that the greatest wit may be found in 
a character without impairing the most unaffected 
piety. 

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for 
your partiality to this performance. The under 
taking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was 
very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this 
piece in its various stages, always thought it so. 
However, I ventured to trust it to the pubhc ; and. 
though it was necessarily delayed till late in the 
season, I have every reason to be grateful. 
I am, Dear Sir, 
Your most sincere friend and admirer, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



PROLOGUE. 
BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 

Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a 
handkerciiief to his eyes. 

Excuse me, sirs, I pray, — I can't yet speak, — 
I'm crying now — and have been all the week. 
" 'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters : 
" I've that within" — for which there are no plasters! 
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying ? 
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop : 



I am undone, that's all— shall lose my bread— 
I'd rather, but that's nothing — lose my head. 
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. 
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed. 
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed ! 
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; 
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! 
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. 
We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
What shall we do 7 — If Comedy forsake us. 
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take US. 
But why can't I be moral? — Let me try — 
My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye — 
With a sententious look that nothing means, 
(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) 
Thus I begin— "All is not gold that glitters; 
Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 
When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : 
Learning is better far than house or land. 
Let not your virtue trip ; who trips may stumble 
And virtue is not virtue if she tumble." 

I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 
To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. 
One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill, 
A Doctor comes this night to show his skill. 
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, 
He, in five draughts prepared, presents a potion : 
A kind of magic charm — for be assured. 
If you will swallow it the maid is cured ; 
But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, 
If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! 
This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 
No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives. 
Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree; 
If not, within he will receive no fee ! 
The college, you, must his pretensions back, 
Pronounce him Regular, or dub him duack. 



x94 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Sir Charles Marlow , . Mr. Gardner. 

Young Marlow (his son) . Mr. Levvls. 

Hardcastle Mr. Shuter. 

Hastings Mr. Dubellamy. 

ToNV Lumpkin ..." Mr. au.iCK. 

DiGGORY Mr. Saunders. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs. Hardcastle . . . Mrs. Greene. 

Miss Hardcastle . . . Mrs. Bulkley. 

Miss Neville .... Mrs. Kniveton. 

Maid , . Miss Willems. 

Landlord, Servants, &c. &c. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 

OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 
ACT L 

scene — A CHAMBER IN AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. 
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
very particular. Is there a creature in the whole 
country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to 
town now and then, to rub off the rust a little 7 
There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour 
Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every 
winter. 

Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affec- 
tation to last them the whole year. I wonder why 
London can not keep its own fools at home ! In 
my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among 
US, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. 
Its fopperies come down not only as inside passen- 
gers, but in the very basket. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, your times were fine times 
indeed ; you have been telling us of them for many 
a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling 
mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, 
but that we never see company. Our best visiters 
are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little 
Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master: and all our 
entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene 
and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old- 
fashioned trumpery. 

Hardcastle. And I love it. I love every thing 
that's old ; old friends, old times, old manners, old 
books, old wines ; and, I believe, Dorothy, [taking 
her hand] you'll own I have been pretty fond of an 
old wife. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
for ever at your Dorothys and your old wives. You 
may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. 



I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one 
good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make mo- 
ney of that. 

Hardcastle. Let me see : twenty added to twen- 
ty makes just fifty and seven. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I 
was but twenty when I was brought to bed of To- 
ny, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; 
and he's not come to years of discretion yet. 

Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 
Ay, you have taught him finely. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin 
has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his 
learning. I don't think a boy wants much learn- 
ing to spend fifteen hundred a-year. 

Hardcastle. Learning quotha ! a mere composi- 
tion of tricks and mischief. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Humour, my dear, nothing but 
humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow 
the boy a little humour. 

Hardcastle. I'd sooner allow him a horsepond. 
If burning the footman's shoes, frightening the 
maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has 
it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the 
back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, 
I popped my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And am I to blame? The 
poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A 
school would be his death. When he comes to be a 
little stronger, who knows what a year or two's 
Latin may do for him? 

Hardcastle. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. 
No, no; the alehouse and the stable are the only 
schools he'll ever go to. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the 
poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long 
among us. Any body that looks in his face may see 
he's consumptive. 

Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
symptoms. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 

Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 

Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he some- 
times whoops like a speaking trumpet — [ Tony hal- 
looing behind the scenes.] — O, there he goes — a 
very consumptive figure, truly. 

Enter TONY, crossing the stage. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my 
charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of 
your company, lovey ? 

Tony. I'm in haste, mother; I can not stay. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this 
raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. 

Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three 
Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's 
some fun going forward. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



195 



Hardcastle. Ay; the alehouse, the old place; I 
thought so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 

Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Mug- 
gins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse doctor, 
little Aminidab that grinds the music box, and 
Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint 
them for one night at least. 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not 
so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint 
myself. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [detaining hirn]. You shan't 
go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 

Airs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. 

Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or 1. 
[JExit, hauling her out. 

Hardcastle \alone\ Ay, there goes a pair that 
only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in 
a combination to drive sense and discretion out of 
doors 1 There's my pretty darling Kate ! the fash- 
ions of the times have almost infected her too. By 
living a year or two in town, she's as fond of gauze 
and French frippery as the best of them. 

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! 
dressed out as usual, my Kate. Goodness! What 
a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about 
thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, 
that the indigent world could be clothed out of the 
trimmings of the vain. 

Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. 
You allow me the morning to receive and pay 
visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the 
evening I put on my housewife's dress to please 
you. 

Hardcastle. Well, remember I insist on the 
terms of am agreement ; and by the by, I believe I 
shall have occasion to try your obedience this very 
evening. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I don't compre- 
hend your meaning. 

Hardcastle. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I 
expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be 
your husband from town this very day. I have his 
father's letter, in which he informs me his son is 
set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly 
after. 

Miss Hardcastle. Indeed! I wish I had known 
something of this before. Bless me, how shall I 
behave? It's a thousand to one I shan't Uke him; 
our meeting will be so formal, and so Uke a thing 
of business, that I shall find no room for friendship 
or esteem. 

Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will 



control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have 
pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir 
Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard mc 
talk so often. The young gentleman has been 
bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment 
in the service of his country. I am told he's a 
man of an excellent understanding. 

Miss Hardcastle. Is he 7 

Hardcastle. Very generous. 

Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. 

Hardcastle. Young and brave. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure I shall like him. 

Hardcastle. And very handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, 
[kissing his hand] he's mine ; I'll have him. 

Hardcastle. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of 
the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all 
the world. 

Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to 
death again. That word reserved has undone all 
the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, 
it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. 

Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom 
resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler 
virtues. It was the very feature in his character 
that first struck me. 

Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking 
features to catch me, I promise you. However, if 
he be so young, so handsome, and so every thing 
as you mention, I beUeve he'll do still. I think I'll 
have him, 

Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an ob- 
stacle. It's more than an even wager he may not 
have you. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you 
mortify one so? Well, if he refuses, instead of break- 
ing my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my 
glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer 
fashion, and look out for some less diflScult admirer. 

Hardcastle. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time 
I'll go prepare the servants for his reception : as we 
seldom see company, they want as much training 
as a company of recruits the first day's muster. 

[Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle [alone]. Lud, this news of 
papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; 
these he put last; but I put them foremost. Sen- 
sible, good natured; I like all that. But then re- 
served and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet 
can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught 
to be proud of his wife? Yes; and cant I — But I 
vow I'm disposing of the husband before I have se- 
cured the lover. 

Enter MISS NEVILLE. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you're come, Ne- 
ville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look 
this evening? Is there any thing whimsical about 



196 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



me 1 Is it one of my well-looking days, child 7 Am 
I in face to-day? 

Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I 
look again — bless me !— sure no accident has hap- 
pened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. 
Has your brother or the cat been meddling 1 or has 
the last novel been too moving 1 

Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I 
nave been tlireatened — I can scarce get it out — I 
have been threatened with a lover. 

Miss Neville. And his name — 

Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. 

Miss Neville. Indeed! 

Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Mar- 
low. 

Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend 
of Mr. Hastings, my admirei-. They are never 
asunder. I believe you must have seen him when 
we lived in town. 

Miss Hardcastle. Never, 

Miss Neville. He's a very singular character, I 
assure you. Among women of reputation and 
virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his ac- 
quaintance give him a very different character 
among creatures of another stamp : you understand 
me. 

Miis Hardcastle. An odd character indeed. I 
shall never be able to manage him. What shall I 
do? Pshaw, thinli no more of him, but trust to oc- 
currences for success. But how goes on your own 
aftair, my dear? has my mother been courting you 
for my brother Tony as usual? 

Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our 
agreeable tete-d-tetes. She has been saying a hun- 
dred tender things, and setting off her pretty mon- 
ster as the very pink of perfection. 

Miss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such, 
that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like 
yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has 
the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see 
her unwilling to let it go out of the family. 

Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. 
But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but con- 
stant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at 
last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love 
■with her son ; and she never once dreams that my 
affections are fixed upon another. 

Miss Hardcastle. My good brother holds out 
stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. 

Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at 
bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married 
to any body but himself But my aunt's bell rings 
for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. 
Allans 1 Courage is r.«cessary, as our affairs are 
critical. 

Miss Hardcastle. " Wovdd it were bed-time, and 
all were well." "Exeunt. 



SCENE — AN ALEHOnSE ROOM. 

Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at 
the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet 
in his hand. 

Ovmes. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo! 

First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a 
song. The 'Squire is going to knock himself down 
for a song. 

Omncs. Ay, a song, a song! 

Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song 1 
made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain. 

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, 
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 

Gives genus a better discerning. 
Let them brag of their heathenish gods. 

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
Their quis, and their quass, and their quods, 

They're all hut a parcel of pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

When methodist preachers come down, 

A-preaching that drinldng is sinful, 
I'll wager the rascals a crown. 

They always preach best with a skinful. 
But when you come down with your pence, 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I'll leave it to all men of sense, 

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Then come put the jorum about. 

And let us be merry and clever, 
Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 
Let some cry up woodcock or hare. 

Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; 
But of all the gay birds in the air. 

Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Omnes. Bravo ! hravo ! 

First Fellow. The 'Squire has got spunk in 
him. 

Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays 
he never gives us nothing that's low. 

Third Fellow. O damn any thing that's low, I 
can not bear it. 

Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the gen- 
teel thing at any time : if so be that a gentleman 
bees in a concatenation accordingly. 

Third Felloic. I like the maxura of it, Master 
Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance 
a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. 
May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



197 



to the very genteelest of tunes ; " Water Parted," 
or " The minuet in Ariadne." 

Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 'Squire is 
not come to his own. It would be well for all the 
publicans within ten miles round of him. 

Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. 
I'd then show what it was to keep choice of com- 
pany. 

Second Fellow. O he takes after his own father 
for that. To be sure old ' Squire Lumpkin was the 
finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For wind- 
ing the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a 
hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was 
a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, 
dogs, and girls, in the whole county. 

Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no 
bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of 
Bet Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin 
with. But come, my boys, drink about and be 
merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, 
what's the matter '? 

Enter LANDLORD. 

Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post- 
chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo' 
the forest ; and they are talking something about 
Mr. Hardcastle. 

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be 
the gentleman that's coming down to court my sis- 
ter. Do they seem to be Londoners 1 

Landlord. I believe they may. They look 
woundily like Frenchmen. 

Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and 
I'll set them right in a twinkhng. [E.vit Land- 
lord.] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough 
company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll 
be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. 

[Exeunt Mob. 

Tony, [alone.] Father-in-law has been calling 
me whelp and hound this half-year. Now if I 
pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grum- 
bletonian. But then I'm afraid — afraid of what "I 
I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and 
let him frighten me out of that if he can. 

Enter LANDLORD, conducting MARLOW and 
HASTINGS. 

Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day 
have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty 
miles across the country, and we have come above 
threescore. 

Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unac- 
countable reserve of yours, that would not let us 
inquire more frequently on the way. 

Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to 
lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet. 



and often stand the chance of an unmannerly aii- 
swer. 

Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely 
to receive any answer. 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told 
you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in 
these parts. Do you know what part of the coun- 
try you are in 7 

Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 
you for information. 

Tony. Nor the way you came 1 

Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither 
the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the 
road you came, the first thing I have to inform you 
is, that — you have lost your way. 

Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 

Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to 
ask the place from whence you came 7 

Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing 
us where we are to go. 

Tony. No offence ; but question for question is 
all fair, you know. — Pray, gentlemen, is not this 
same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, 
whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, 
and a pretty son 7 

Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; 
but he has the family you mention. 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trollop- 
ing, talkative maypole — the son, a pretty, ivcll- 
bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of 7 

Marlow. Our information differs in this. The 
daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the 
son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at 
his mother's apron-string. 

Tony. He-he-hem! — Then, gentlemen, all I 
have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hard- 
castle's house this night, I believe. 

Hastings. Unfortunate! 

Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirt}', 
dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the 
way to Mr. Hardcastle' s ! [Winking upon the 
Landlord.] Mr. Hardcastle' s, of duagmire Marsh, 
you understand me. 

Landlord. Master Hardcastle' s! Lack-a-daisy, 
my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! 
When you came to the bottom of the hill, you 
should have crossed down Squash-Lane. 

Marloio. Cross down Squash Lane ! 

Landlord. Then you were to keep straight for- 
ward, till you came to four roads. 

Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ! 

Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take only 
one of them. 

Marlow. O, sir, you're facetious. 

Tony. Then keeping to the nght, you are to 
go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull Com- 
mon : there you must look sharp for the track of 



198 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the wheel; and go forward till you come to Farmer 
Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, 
you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, 
and then to the right about again, till you find out 
the old mill. 

Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find 
out the longitude ! 

Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow"? 

Marlow. This house promises but a poor re- 
ception ; though perhaps the landlord can accom- 
modate us. 

Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one 
spare bed in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken 
up by three lodgers already. [After a pause, in 
which the rest seem disconcerted.] I have hit it. 
Don't you think. Stingo, our landlady could ac- 
commodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with — 
three cliairs and a bolster 7 

Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 

Marlow. And I detest yoiu: three chairs and a 
bolster. 

Tomj. You do, do you? — then, let me see — 
what if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's 
Head ; the old Buck's head on the hill, one of the 
best inns in the whole county 1 

Hastings. O ho! so we have escaped an adven- 
ture for this night, however. 

Landlord [apart to Tony.] Sure, you ben't 
sending them to your father's as an inn, be you 1 

Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that 
out. [To them.] You have only to keep on 
straight forward, till you come to a large old house 
by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns 
over tile door. That's the sign. Drive up the 
yard, and call stoutly about you. 

Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The 
servants can't miss the way 1 

Tony. No, no : but I tell you, though, the land- 
lord is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he 
wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your pre- 
sence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his 
company ; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll per- 
suade you that his mother was an alderman, and 
his aunt a justice of peace. 

Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; 
but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the 
whole country. 

Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
shall want no further connexion. We are to turn 
to the right, did you say 7 

Tony. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step 
myself, and show you a piece of the way. [ To 
the Landlord.] Mum ! 

Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, 

pleasant damn'd mischievous son of a whore. 

Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE — AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. 

Enter HARDCASTXE, followed by three or four awkward 

servants. 

Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the 
table exercise I have been teaching you these three 
days. You all know your posts and your places, 
and can show that you have been used to good 
company, without ever stirring from home. 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not 
to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like 
frighted rabbits in a warren. 

Omncs. No, no. 

Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken 
from the barn, are to make a show at the side-ta- 
ble ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from 
the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. 
But you're not to stand so, with your hands in 
your pockets. Take your hands from your pock- 
ets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead 
you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're 
a little too stiff indeed, but that's no great matter. 

Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned 
to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill 
for the militia. And so being upon drill 

Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Dig- 
gory. You must be all attention to the guests. 
You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; 
you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; 
you must see us eat and not think of eating. 

Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's 
parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees 
yeating going forward, ecod he's always wishing 
for a mouthful himself. 

Hardcastle. Blockhead ! Is not a belly-full in 
the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour 1 
Stay your stomach with that reflection. 

Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make 
a shift to stay my stomach with a sUce of cold beef 
in the pantr}'. 

Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. — ■ 
Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a 
good story at table, you must not all burst out a- 
laughing, as if you made part of the company. 

Diggory. Then ecod your worship must not 
tell the story of ould Grouse in the gun-room : I 
can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the 
soul of me. We have laughed at that these twen- 
ty years — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good 
one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at 
that — ^but still remember to be attentive. Suppose 
one of the company should call for a glass of wine, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQ.UER. 



199 



how will you behave 7 A glass of wine, sir, if you 
please — [to Diggory] — eh, why don't you move? 
Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have cou- 
rage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought 
upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. 
Hardcastle. What, will nobody move? 
First Servant. I'm not to leave this place. 
Second Servant. I'm sure it's no place of mine. 
Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartin. 
Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be 
mine. 

Hardcastle. You numskulls ! and so while, like 
your betters, you are quarreling for places, the 
guests must be starved. O you dunces! I find I 

must begin all over again But don't I hear a 

coach drive into the yard? To your posts, you 
blockheads. I'll go in the mean time and give my 
old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. 

[Exit Hardcastle. 
Diggory. By the elevens, my place is gone quite 
out of my head. 

. Roger. I know that my place is to be every 
where. 

First Servant. Where the devil is mine? 
Second Servant. My place is to be nowhere at 
all; and so I'ze go about my business. [E.xeunt 
Servants, running about as if frighted, different 
ways. 



Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in MARLOW and 
HASTINGS. 

Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! 
This way. 

Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, 
welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a 
clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a 
very well-looking house ; antique but creditable. 

Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. 
Having first ruined the master by good house-keep- 
ing, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. 

Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be 
taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen 
a good sideboard, or a marble chimney -piece, though 
not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning 
confoundedly, 

Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all 
places ; the only diflference is, that in good inns you 
pay dearly for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced 
and starved. 

Hastings. You have lived very much among 
them, In truth, I have been often surprised, that 
you who have seen so much of the world, with your 
natural good sense, and your many opportunities, 
could never yet acquire a requisite share of assur- 
ance. 

Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell 
me, George, where could I have learned that as- 
surance you talk of? My life has been chiefly 
spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that 



lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men 
confidence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly 
acquainted with a single modest woman, except 
my mother — But among females of another class 

you know 

Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent 
enough of all conscience. 

Marlow. They are of its, you know. 
Hastings. But in the company of women of 
reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trem- 
bler; you look for all the world as if you wanted an 
opportunity of stealing out of the room. 

Marlow. Why, man, that's because I do want 
to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often form- 
ed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at 
any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance 
from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my reso- 
lution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit mo- 
desty, but I'll be hanged if a modest man can 
ever counterfeit impudence. 

Hastings. If you could but say half the fine 
things to them that I have heard you lavish upon 
the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker, 
Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine things 
to them; they freeze, they petrify me. They may 
talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some 
such bagatelle ; but to me, a modest woman, dress- 
ed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous ob- 
ject of the whole creation. 

Hastings. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how 
can you ever expect to marry? 

Marlow. Never, unless, as among kings and 
princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, 
indeed, like an eastern bridegroom, one were to be 
introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might 
be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a 
formal courtship, together with the episode of 
aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to 
blunt out the broad staring question of, Madami 
will you marry me? No, no, that's a strain much 
above me, I assure 3'ou. 

Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend 
behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at 
the request of your father? 

Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow 
very low, answer yes or no to all her demands — 
But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to 
look in her face till I see my father's again. 

Hastings. V m surprised that one who is so warm 
a friend can be so cool a lover. 

Marloio. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my 
chief inducement down was to be instrumental in 
forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss 
Neville loves you, the family don't know you! as 
my friend you are sure of a reception, and let hon- 
our do the rest. 

Hastings. My dear Marlow ! But I'll suppress 
the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to 
carry oflT a fortune, you should be the last man ji^ 



200 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the world I wovild apply to for assistance. But 
Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is 
mine, both from her deceased father's consent, 
and her own inclination. 

Marlow. Happy man! You have talents and 
art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore 
the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it 
I despise. This stammer in my address, and this 
awkward unprepossessing visage of mine can never 
permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's 
'prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane. 
Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. 

Enter HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are 
heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow 1 Sir, you 
are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to 
receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like 
to give them a hearty reception in the old style at 
my gate. I Uke to see their horses and trunks 
taken care of. 

Marlow {aside]. He has got our names from 
the servants already. — [To Hardcastle.'] We ap- 
prove your caution and hospitality, sir. — [ To Has- 
tings.] I have been thinlving, George, of changing 
our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown 
confoundedly ashamed of mine. 

Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no 
ceremony in this house. 

Marlow. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first 
blow is half the battle. I intend opening the cam- 
paign with the white and gold. 

Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gen- 
tlemen — pray be under no restraint in this house. 
This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do 
just as you please here. 

Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign 
too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition be- 
fore it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery 
to secure a retreat. 

Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Mar- 
low, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, 
when we went to besiege Denain. He first sum- 
moned the garrison 

Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waist- 
coat will do with the plain brown 7 

Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison, 
which might consist of about five thousand men — 

Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix 
but very poorly. 

Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling 
you, he simimoned the garrison, which might con- 
sist of about five thousand men 

Marlow. The girls like finery. 

Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five 
thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammu- 
nition, and other implements of war. Now, says 
the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that 
stood next to him — You must have heard of 



George Brooks — I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, 
but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of 
blood. So 

Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us 
a glass of punch in the mean time ; it would help us 
to carry on the siege vfith vigour. 

Hardcastle. Pimch, sir! [aside.] This is the 
most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met 
with. 

Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm 
punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This 
is Liberty-hall, you know. 

Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir. 

Marlow [aside]. So this fellow, in his Liberty- 
hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 

Hardcastle [taking the cwp]. I hope you'll find 
it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are 
tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me. 
sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better ac- 
quaintance. [Drinks. 

Marlow [aside]. A very impudent fellow, this! 
but he's a character, and I'll humour him a little. 
Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. 

Hastings [aside]. I see this fellow wants to 
give us his company, and forgets that he's an inn- 
keeper before he has learned to be a gentleman. 

Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my 
old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of busi- 
ness in this part of the country. Warm work, 
now and then, at elections, I suppose. 

Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work 
over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient 
of electing each other, there is no business " for us 
that sell ale." 

Hastings. So then you have no turn for politics, 
I find. 

Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a 
time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes 
of government, like other people ; but finding my- 
self every day grow more angry, and the govern- 
ment growing no better, I left it to mend itself. 
Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hy- 
der Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. 
Sir my service to you. 

Hastings. So that with eating above stairs, and 
drinking below, with receiving your friends with- 
in, and amusing them without, you lead a good 
pleasant bustUng life of it. 

Hardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that's 
certain. Half the differences of the parish are ad- 
justed in this very parlour. 

Marlow [after drinking]. And you have an 
argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than 
any in Westminster-hall. 

Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a 
little philosophy. 

Marlow [aside]. Well, this is the first time I ever 
heard of an inkeeper's philosophy. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general, 
you attack them on every quarter. If you find 
their reason manageable, you attack it with your 
philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you 
attack them with this. Here's your health, my 
philosopher. [Drinks. 

Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you; ha! 
ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of 
Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the 
battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. 

Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I be- 
lieve it's almost time to talk about supper. What 
has your philosophy got in the house for supper 7 

Hardcastle. For supper, sir ! [^s^'cZe] Was ever 
such a request to a man in his own house! 

Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an 
appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in 
the larder, I promise you. 

Hardcastle \aside'\. Such a brazen dog sure 
never my eyes beheld. [To him.'] Why really, 
sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy 
and the cook-maid settle these things between 
them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. 

Marlow. You do, do you ? 

Hofrdcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they 
are in actual consultation upon what's for supper 
this moment in the kitchen. 

Marlow. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of 
their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When 
I travel I always choose to regulate my own sup- 
per. Let the cook be called. No offence I hope, 
sir'? 

Hardcastle. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I 
don't know how; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is 
not very communicative upon these occasions. 
Should we send for her, she might scold us all out 
of the house. 

Hastings. Lot's see your list of the larder then. 
1 ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite 
to my bill of fare. 

Marlow [io Hardcastle, who looks at them with 
surprise]. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way 
too. 

Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command 
here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to- 
rdght's supper: I believe it's drawn out. — Your 
manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my 
uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, 
that no man was sure of his supper till he had 
eaten it. 

Hastings [Aside]. All upon the high rope ! His 
uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother 
being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the 
bill of fare. 

Marlow [perusing]. What's here? For the 
first course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. 
The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down 
tUe whole joiner's company, or the corporation of 



Bedford, to eat up such a supper 1 Two or three 
httle things, clean and comfortable, will do. 

Hastings. But let's hear it. 

Marlow [reading]. For the first courae at the 
top, a pig, and prune sauce. 

Hastings. Damn your pig, I say. 

Marlew, And damn your prune sauce, say I. 

Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that 
are hungry, pig with prune sauce is very good 
eating. 

Marlow. At the bottom a calf's tongue and 
brains. 

Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my 
good sir, I don't like them. 

Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by 
themselves. 

Hardcastle [aside]. Their impudence con- 
founds me. [To them.] Gentlemen, you are my 
guests, make what alterations you please. Is there 
any thing else you wish to retrench or alter, gen- 
tlemen ? 

Marlow. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a 
dish of tiff — taif— taffety cream. 

Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall 
be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and 
yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table, 
I'm for plain eating. 

Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have 
nothing you like, but if there be any thing you 
have a particular fancy to 

Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so 
exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as 
another. Send us what you please. So much for 
supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, 
and properly taken care of 

Hardcastle. I entreat you'll leave aU that to me. 
You shall not stir a step. 

Marlov>. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you 
must excuse me, I always look to these things my- 
self 

Hardcastle. I must insist, sir, you'll make your- 
self easy on that head. 

Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. [Aside.l 
A very troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with. 

Hardcastle. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to 
attend you. [Aside.] This may be modern mo- 
desty, but I never saw any thing look so like old- 
fashioned impudence. 

[Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 

Hastings [alone]. So I find this fellow's civili- 
ties begin to grow troublesome. But who can be 
angry at those assiduities which are meant to 
please him 7 — Ha ! what do I see7 Miss Neville, by 
all that's happy ! 

Enter MISS NEVILLE. 

Miss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what un- 



202 



GOLDSMITH'S WOtlKS. 



expected good fortune, to what accident, am I to 
ascribe this happy meeting 7 

Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, 
as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest 
Constance at an inn. 

Miss Neville. An inn! sure you mistake: my 
aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could in- 
duce you to think this house an inn! 

Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom 
I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an 
inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we ac- 
cidentally met at a house hard by, directed us 
hither. 

Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my 
hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard 
me talk so often; ha! ha! ha! 

Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you 7 
he of whom I have such just apprehensions 7 

Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from 
him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew 
how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it 
too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and 
actually begins to think she has made a conquest. 
Hastings. Thou dear dissembler ! You must 
know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy 
opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admit- 
tance into the family. The horses that carried us 
down are now fatigued with their journey, but 
they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest 
girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall 
soon be landed in France, where even among 
slaves the laws of marriage are respected. 

Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though 
ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little for- 
tune behind with reluctance. The greatest part 
of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, 
and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for 
some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. 
I fancy I'm very near succeeding. The instant 
they are put into my possession, you shall find me 
ready to make them and myself yours. 

Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is 
all I desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow 
must not be let into his mistake. I know the 
strange reserve of his temper is such, that if ab- 
ruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the 
house before our plan was ripe for execution. 

Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in 
the deception 7 Miss Hardcastle is just returned 
from walking; what if we still continue to deceive 
him 7 This, this way [ They confer. 

Enter MAKLOW. 

Marlow. The assiduities of these good people 
tease me beyond bearing. My host seems to tliink 
it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps 
not only himself but his old-fashioned wife on my 
back. They talk of coming to sup with us too; 
and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet 



through all the rest of the family. — ^What have we 
got here? 

Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratu- 
late you 1 — The most fortunate accident 7 — Who 
do you think is just alighted 7 

Marlow. Can not guess. 

Hastings. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Hardcas- 
tle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce 
Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance. 
Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they 
called on their return to take fresh horses here. 
Miss Hardcastle has just stepped into the next 
room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it 
lucky 7 eh! 

Marlow [aside.] I have been mortified enough 
of all conscience, and here comes something to 
complete my embarrassment. 

Hastings. Well, but wasn't it the most fortu- 
nate thing in the world 7 

Marlow. Oh ! yes. Very fortunate — a most 
joyful encounter — But our dresses, George, you 
know are in disorder — What if we should post- 
pone the happiness till to-morrow 7 — To-morrow 
at her own house — It will be every bit as conve- 
nient — and rather more respectful — To-morrow let 
it be. [ Offering to go. 

Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your cere- 
mony will displease her. The disorder of your 
dress will show the ardour of your impatience. 
Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will 
permit you to see her. 

Marlow. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it 7 
— Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You 
are to assist me, you know. I shall be confound- 
edly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage. 
Hem! 

Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it's but the first plunge, 
and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. 

Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread 
most to encounter. 

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking. 

Hastings [introducing tliem.] Miss Hardcas- 
tle. Mr. Marlow. I'm proud of bringing two 
persons of such merit together, that only want to 
know, to esteem each other. 

Miss Hardcastle [aside.] Now for meeting my 
modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite 
in his own manner. [After a pause, in which he 
appears very uneasy and disconcerted.] I'm glad 
of your safe arrival, sir, — I'm told you had some 
accidents by the way. 

Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had 
some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but 
should be sorry — madam — or rather glad of any 
accidents — that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 

Hastings [to him.] You never spoke better in 
your whole Ufe. Keep it up and I'll insure you 
the victory. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



SOS 



Miss Hardcastle. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. 
You, that have seen so much of the finest compa- 
ny, can find httle entertainment in an obscure cor- 
ner of the country. 

Marlow [gathering courage]. I have Uved, in- 
•deed, in the world, madam; but I have kept very 
Uttle company. I have been but an observer upon 
life, madam, while others were enjoying it. 

Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to 
enjoy it at last. 

Hastings [to him]. Cicero never spoke better. 
Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance 
for ever. 

Marlow [to him\. Hem! standby me then, and 
when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me 
up again. 

Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon 
life were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you 
must have had much more to censure than to ap- 
prove. 

Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always 
willing to be amused. The folly of most people is 
rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. 

Hastings [to him]. Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcas- 
tle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to 
be very good company. I believe our being here 
will but embarrass the interview. 

Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We 
like your company of all things. [Tohim.] Zounds! 
George, sure you won't go 7 how can you leave 
usl 

Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversa- 
tion, so we'll retire to the next room. [ To him.] 
You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a 
little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. 

Miss Hardcastle [after a pause]. But you have 
not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir: the 
ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of 
your addresses. 

Marlow [relapsing info timidity]. Pardon me, 
madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to 
deserve them. 

Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the 
very worst way to obtain them. 

Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to 
converse only with the more grave and sensible 
part of the sex. — But I'm afraid 1 grow tiresome. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing 
I like so much as grave conversation myself; I 
could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been 
surprised how a man of sentiment could ever ad- 
mire those light airy pleasures, where nothing 
reaches the heart. 

Marlow. It's a disease of the mind, ma- 
dam. In the variety of tastes there must be some 
who, wanting a relish for um — a — um. 

Miss Hardcastle. 1 understand you, sir. There 



must be some who, wanting a relish for refined 
pleasures, pretend to despise what they are inca- 
pable of tasting. 

Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely 
better expressed. I can't help observing a 

Miss Hardcastle [aside]. Who could ever sup- 
pose this fellow impudent upon such occasions ! 
[ To him.] You were going to observe, sir 

Marlow. I was observing, madam — I protest, 
madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 

Miss Hardcastle [aside]. I vow and so do I. 
[To him.] You were observing, sir, that in this 
age of hypocrisy — sorpething about hypocrisy, sir. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypo- 
crisy there are few who upon strict inquiry do not 
— a — a — a — 

Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, 
sir. 

Marlow [aside]. Egad ! and that's more than I 
do myself 

Miss Hardcastle. You mean that in this hypo- 
critical age there are few that do not condemn in 
public what they practise in private, and think 
they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. 

Marlow. True, madam; those who have most 
virtue ui their mouths, have least of it in their bo- 
soms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir; there's 
something so agreeable and spirited in your man- 
ner, such life and force — pray, sir, go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. I was saying 

that there are some occasions — when a total want 

of courage, madam, destroys all the and puts 

us upon a — a — a — 

Miss Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely; a 
want of courage upon some occasions assumes the 
appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we 
most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, ma- 
dam — But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the 
next room. I would not intrude for the world. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was 
more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray 
go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she 

beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do my- 
self the honour to attend you? 

Miss Hardcastle. Well then, I'll follow. 

Marlow [aside]. This pretty smooth dialogue 
has done for me. [Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle [alone]. Pla ! ha ! ha ! Was 
there ever such a sober, sentimental interview? 
I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole 
time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable 
bashfulness, ia pretty well too. He has good 
sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fa- 
tigues one more than ignorance. If 1 could teach 
hirn a little confidence it would be doing somebody 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



that I know of a piece of service. But who is that 
somebody? That, faith, is a question I can scarce 
answer. [Exit, 

Enter TONY and MISS NEVILLE, followed by MRS. 
HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS. 

Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con? 
I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engag- 
ing. 

Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to 
one's own relations, and not be to blame. 

Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation 

you want to make me though; but it won't do. 1 

tell you, Cousin Con, it won't do; so I beg you'll 

keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. 

[She follows, coquetting him to the back scene. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, 
you are very entertaining. There is nothing in 
the world 1 love to talk of so much as London, and 
the fashions, though I was never there myself. 

Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From 
your air and manner, I concluded you had been 
bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, 
or Tower Wharf. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. O ! sir, you're only pleased to 
say so. We country persons can have no manner 
at all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves 
to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics; 
but who can have a manner, that has never seen 
the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, 
and such places where the nobility chiefly resort 7 
All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. 
I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the 
Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, 
as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss 
Rickets of Crooked-Lane. Pray how do you like 
this head, Mr. Hastings? 

Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, 
upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a French- 
man, I suppose? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself 
from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book 
for the last year. 

Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box 
at the play-house would draw as many gazers as 
my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inoculation began, 
there is no such thing to be seen as a plain wo- 
man ; so one must dress a Uttle particular, or one 
may escape in the crowd. 

Hastings. But that can never be your case, 
madam, in any dress. [Bowing. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet, what signifies my dress- 
ino- when I have such a piece of antiquity by my 
side as Mr. Hardcastle : all I can say will never 
argue down a single button from his clothes. I 
have often wanted him to throw off his great 
flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it 
over, like my Lord Pately, with powder. 



Hastings. You are right, madam; for, as 
among the ladies there are none ugly, so among 
the men there are none old. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you tlunk hig 
answer was? Why, with his usual Gothic viva- 
city, he said I only wanted him to throw off his 
wig to convert it into a tete for my own wearing. 

Hastings, Intolerable ! At your age you may 
wear what you please, and it must become you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what 
do you take to be the most fashionable age about 
town ? 

Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the 
mode; but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up 
fifty for the ensuing winter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously. Then I shall be 
too young for the fashion. 

Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels 
till she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in 
a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a 
mere maker of samplers. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks 
herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels 
as the oldest of us all. 

Hastings. Your niece, is she? And that 
young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should 
presume ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle, My son, sir. They are con- 
tracted to each other. Observe their little sports. 
They fall in and out ten times a day, as if they 
were man and wife already. {To them.] Well, 
Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to 
your cousin Constance this evening? 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things; but 
that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! 
I've not a place in the house now that's left to my- 
self, but the stable. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my 
dear, he's in another story behind your back. 

Miss Neville. There's something generous in 
my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to 
be forgiven in private. 

Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. 
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah! he's a sly one. Don't 
you think they're like each other about the mouth, 
Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. 
They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, 
that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell 
you. [Measuring. 

Miss Neville. O lud ! he has almost cracked my 
head. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. O, the monster ! For shame, 
Tony. You a man, and behave so ! 

Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. 
Ecod, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all 
that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in 
your education ? I that have rocked you in your 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



205 



cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ! 
Did not I work that waistcoat to make you gen- 
teel ? Did not I prescribe for you every day, and 
weep while the receipt was operating 1 

Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you 
have been dosing me ever since I was born. I 
have gone through every receipt in the Complete 
Housewife ten times over; and you have thoughts 
of coursing me through GLuincey next spring. 
But, ecod! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no 
longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Wasn't it all for your good, 
viper 7 Wasn't it all for your good? 

Tonrj. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, 
then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If 
I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; not to 
keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. That's false ; I never see you 
when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go 
to the alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be de- 
lighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling 
monster ! 

Tony. Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the 
wildest of the two. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was ever the likel but I see 
he wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 

Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture 
the young gentleman a httle. I'm certain I can 
persuade him to his duty. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, 
Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the 
wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor wo- 
man so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provok- 
ing, undutiful boy 1 

[Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 

HASTINGS, TONY. 

Tony [singing]. " There was a young man 
riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang 

do didlo dee." Don't mind her. Let her 

cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen 
her and sister cry over a book for an hour together; 
and they said they liked the book the better the 
more it made them cry. 

Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, 
I find, my pretty young gentleman? 

Tony. That's as I find 'um. 

Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, 
I dare answer'? And yet she appears to me a 
pretty well-tempered girl. 

Tony. That's because you don't know her so 
well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; 
and there's not a more bitter cantackerous toad in 
all Christendom. 

Hastings [aside]. Pretty encouragement this 
for a lover ! 



Hastings. To me she appears sensible and 
silent. 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's 
with her playmate, she's as loud as a hog in a 
gate. 

Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about 
her that charms me. 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so Uttle, she 
kicks up, and you're flung in the ditch. 

Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a Uttle 
beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 

Tony. Band-box ! She's all a made-up thing, 
mum. Ah! could yoa but see Bet Bouncer of 
these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, 
she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as 
broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make 
two of she. 

Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that 
would take this bitter bargain off your hands'? 
Tony. Ananl 

Hastings. Would you thank him that would 
take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and 
your dear Betsy? 

Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, 
for who would take her 7 

Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll 
engage to whip her off to France, and you shall 
never hear more of her. 

Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will, to the last drop 
of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your 
chaise that shall trundle you ofl^ in a twinlding, 
and may -be get you a part of her fortin besides in 
jewels that you little dream of. 

Hastings. My dear 'Squire, this looks like a 
lad of spirit. 

Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see 
more of my spirit before you are done with me. 

[Singing. 
We are the boys 
That fears no noise 
Where the thundering cannons roar 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



Enter HARDCASTLE, alone. 



Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir 
Charles mean by recommending his son as the 
modestest young man in town 7 To me he ap- 
pears the most impudent piece of brass that ever 
spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of 
the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took 
oflf his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see 
Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. I them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how 
She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a his impudence afiects my daughter.— She will 
colt the first day's breaking. I certainly be shocked at it. 



S06 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



Enter MISS HARDCA3TLE, plainly dressed. 

Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have 
changed your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I be- 
lieve; there was no great occasion. 

Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
obeying your commands, that I take care to ob- 
serve them without ever debating their propriety. 

Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give 
you some cause, particularly when I recommended 
my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 

Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect 
something extraordinary, and 1 find the original 
exceeds the description. 

Hardcastle. 1 was never so surprised in my 
life ! He has quite confounded all my faculties ! 

Miss Hardcastle. I never saw any thing hke it: 
and a man of the world too! 

Hardcastle. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what 
a fool was I, to think a young man could learn mo- 
desty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit 
at a masquerade. 

Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him. 

Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad com- 
pany and a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa ! A 
French dancing-master could never have taught 
him that timid look — that awkward address — that 
bashful manner — 

Hardcastle. Whose look? whose manner, child? 

Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Mario w's : his mauvaisc 
honfe, his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 

Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you ; 
for I think him one of the most brazen first sights 
that ever astonished my senses. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally! I never 
saw any one so modest. 

Hardcastle. And can you be serious 1 I never 
saw such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I 
was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 

Miss Hardcastle. Surprising! He met me with 
a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look 
fixed on the ground. 

Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a 
lordly air, and a famiUarity that made my blood 
freeze again. 

Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence 
and respect ; censured the manners of the age ; ad- 
mired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; 
tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; then 
left the room with a bow, and " Madam, I would 
not for the world detain you." 

Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me 
all his life before ; asked twenty questions, and 
never waited for an answer : interrupted my best 
remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in 
my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and 
Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand 



at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your fa- 
ther if he was a maker of punch ! 

Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be 
mistaken. 

Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown him- 
self, I'm determined he shall never have my con- 
sent. 

Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing 
I take him, he shall never have mine. 

Hardcastle. In one thing then we are agreed — 
to reject him. 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes: but upon conditions.. 
For if you should find him less impudent, and I 
more presuming : if you find him more respectful, 
and I more importunate — I don't know — the fellow 
is well enough for a man — Certainly we don't meet 
many such at a horse-race in the country. 

Hardcastle. If we should find him so But 

that's impossible. The first appearance has done 
my business. I'm seldom deceived in that. 

Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many 
good qualities under that first appearance. 

Hardcastle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow'* 
outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing 
the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face 
stands for good sense, and a genteel figm^e for 
every virtue. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation be- 
gun with a comphment to my good sense, won't 
end with a sneer at my understanding 1 

Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young 
Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling contra- 
dictions, he may please us both, perhaps. 

Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mis- 
taken, what if we go to make further discoveries ? 

Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on't I'm in 
the right. 

Miss Hardcastle. And depend on't I'm not 
much in the wrong. [Exeunt. 

Enter TONY, running in with a casket. 

Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. 
My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My 
mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their for- 
tin neither. O ! my genus, is that you 1 

Enter HASTINGS. 

Hastings. My dear friend, how have you man- 
aged with your mother? I hope you have amused 
her with pretending love for your cousin, and that 
you are willing to be reconciled at last? Our horses 
will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon 
be ready to set off. 

Tonj/. And here's something to bear your 
charges by the way [givirtg the casket]— yoxit 
sweetheart' s j ewels. Keep them ; and hang those, 
I say, that would rob you of one of them. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



207 



Hastings. But how have you procured them 
from your mother 1 

■ Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
fibs. I procured them bj' the rule of thumb. If I 
had not a key to every drawer in mother's bureau, 
how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do? 
An honest man may rob himself of his own at any 
time. 

Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But to 
be plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavouring to 
procure them from her aunt this very instant. If 
she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at 
least of obtaining them. 

Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it 
will be. But I know how it will be well enough, 
she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her 
head. 

Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resent- 
ment when she finds she has lost them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave 
me to manage that. I don't value her resentment 
the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. 
Morrice ! Prance ! [E.rit Hastings. 

TONY, MRS. HARDCASTLE, and IVnSS NEVILLE. 

Mrs. Hardcasile. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be 
time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years 
hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. 

Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at 
forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 

3Irs. Hardcastle. Yours, my dear, can admit of 
none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand 
ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at 
present. Don't you see half the ladies of our ac- 
quaintance, my Lady Kill-dayhght, and Mrs. 
Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to 
town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites 
back. 

Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but 
somebody who shall be nameless would like me 
best with all my little finery about me ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, 
and then see if with such a pair of eyes you want 
any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, 
my dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels 
in your eyes, to set off her beauty ? 

Tony. That's as thereafter may be. 

Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how 
it would oblige me. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose 
and table cut things. They would make you look 
like the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. 
Besides, I believe, I can't readily come at them. 
They may be missing, for aught I know to the 
contrary. 

Tony [apart to Mrs. Hardcastle]. Then, why 
don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing 



for them? Tell her they're lost. It's the only way 
to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear 
witness. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [apart to Tomj]. You know, 
my dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I 
say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you 1 
He! he! he! 

Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I saw 
them taken out with my own eyes. 

Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, 
madam. Just to be permitted to show them as 
relics, and then they may be locked up again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear 
Constance, if I could find them you should have 
them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for 
aught I know ; but we must have patience, wherever 
they are. 

Miss Neville. I'll not believe it! this is but a 
shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are 
too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are 
to answer for the loss 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Don't be alarmed, Constance. 
If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But 
my son knows they are missing, and not to be 
found. 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are 
rhissing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath 
on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You must leavn resignation, 
my dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we 
should not lose our patience. See me, how calm 
I am. 

Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at 
the misfortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Now I wonder a girl of your 
good sense should waste a thought upon such 
trumpery. We shall soon find them ; and in the 
mean time you shall make use of my garnets till 
your jewels be found. 

Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 

Mrs. Hardcasile. The most becoming things in 
the world to set off a clear complexion. You have 
often seen how well they look upon me : you shall 
have them. [Exit. 

Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You 
shan't stir. — Was ever any thing so provoking, to 
mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her 
trumpery. 

Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you. the 
garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are 
your own already. I have stolen them out of her 
bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your 
spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me 
to manage her. 

Miss Neville. My dear cousin ! 

Tony. Vanish. She's here and has missed 
them already. [Exit Miss Neville.] Zounds! 
how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine 
wheel. 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Enter MRS. HAUDCASTLE. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion! thieves ! robbers ! 
we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 

Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, 
mamma 1 I hope nothing has happened to any of 
the good family 1 

Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau 
has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and 
I'm undone. 

Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the 
laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, 
I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! ha! ha! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I'm ruined in 
earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and 
all taken away. 

Tony. Stick to that: ha! ha! ha! stick to that. 
I'll bear witness, you know; call me to bear wit- 
ness. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that's 
precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined 
for ever. 

Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I'm to 
say so. 

Mrs Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear 
me. They're gone, I say. 

Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for 
to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well 
enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a block- 
head, that can't tell the difference between jest 
and earnest? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby. 

Tony. That's right, that's right: you must be 
in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect 
either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross- 
grained brute, that won't hear me ? Can you bear 
witness that you're no better than a fool ? Was 
ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, 
and thieves on the other ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you 
blockhead you, and I'U turn you out of the room 
directly. My poor niece, what will become of her ! 
Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you en- 
joyed my distress ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster? 
I'll teach you to vex your mother, I will. 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

[He runs off, she follows him. 

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE and MAID. 

Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable crea- 
ture is that brother of mine, to send them to the 
house as an inn, ha ! ha! I don't wonder at his 
impudence. 

Maid. But what is more, madam, the young 
gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, 



asked me if you were the bar maid. He mistook 
you for the bar-maid, madam. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then as I live I'm 
resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pim- 
ple, how do you like my present dress^? Don't 
you think I look something hke Cherry in the 
Beaux Stratagem? 

Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady 
wears in the country, but when she visits or re- 
ceives company. 

Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does 
not remember my face or person ? 

Maid. Certain of it. 

Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so; for 
though we spoke for some time together, yet his 
fears were such that he never once looked up during 
the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would 
have kept him from seeing me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him 
in his mistake ? 

Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be 
seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl 
who brings her face to market. Then I shall per- 
haps make an acquaintance, and that's no small 
victory gained over one who never addresses any 
but the wildest of our sex. But my chief aim is 
to take my gentleman off his guard, and like an 
invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's 
force before I offer to combat. 

Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, 
and disguise your voice so that he may mistake 
that, as he has already mistaken your person? 

Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I 
have got the true bar cant — Did your honour call ? 
— Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for 
the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this 
half hour. 

Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 

[Exit Maid. 

Enter MARLOW. 

Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the 
house. I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go 
to the best room, there I find my host and his 
story; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my 
hostess with her courtesy down to th& ground. I 
have at last got a moment to myself, and now for 
recollection. [ Walks and muses. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir ? Did your 
honour call ? 

Marlow [musing]. As for Miss Hardcastle, 
she's too grave and sentimental for me. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did your honour call ? 

[She still places herself before him, he 
turning away. 

Marlow. No, child. [Musing.] Besides, from 
the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



209 



Mar low. No, no. \ Musing.] I have pleased my 
father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-mor- 
row please myself by returning. 

[ Taking out his tablets, and perusing. 
Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman 
called, sir? 

Marlo'iD. I tell you no. 

Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir. 
We have such a parcel of servants ! 

Marlow. No, no, I tell you. [Looks full in her 

J'ace.] Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — 

I wanted — 1 vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. O la, sir, you'll make one 

ashamed. 

Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly malicious 
eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you 
got any of your — a — what d'ye call it in the 
house 1 

Miss Hardcastle. No, sir ; we have been out of 
that these ten days. 

Marlow. One may call in this house, I find to 

very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a 

taste, just by way of trial, of tlie nectar of your 

lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too, 

Miss Hardcastle. Nectar! nectar! That's a 

liquor there's no call for in these parts. French, 

I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. 

Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then its odd I should not 

know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, 

and I have hved here these eighteen years. 

Marlow. Eighteen years! Why one would 
think, child, you kept the bar before you was born. 
How old are you 1 

Miss Hardcastle. O! sir, I must not tell my 
age. They say women and music should never 
be dated. 

Marloio. To guess at this distance you can't be 
much above forty. [A-pproaching.] Yet nearer 
I don't think so much. [Approaching.] By 
coming close to some women, they look younger 
still ; but when we come very close indeed. 

[Attempting to kiss her. 
Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. 
One would think you wanted to know one's age 
as they do horses, by mark of mouth. 

Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely 
ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it 
possible you and I can ever be acquainted? 

Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be ac- 
quainted with you? I want no such acquaint- 
ance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss 
Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this ob- 
stropalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her 
you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the 
ground, and talked for all the world as if you 
were before a Justice of Peace. 

Marlow [aside]. Egad, she has hit it, sure 
enough ! [ To her.] In awe of her, child? Ha ! 
14 



ha! ha! A mere awkward squinting thing ; no, 
no. I find you don't know me. I laughed and 
rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too 
severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse mc ! 

Miss Hardcastle. O then, sir, you are a favour- 
ite, I find, among the ladies? 

Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And 
yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to 
follow. At the ladies' club in town I'm called 
their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my 
real name, but one I'm known by. My name is 
Solomons — Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your ser- 
vice. [Offering to salute her. 

Miss Hardcastle. Hold, sir; you are introduc- 
ing me to your club, not to yourself. And you're 
so great a favourite there, you say ? 

Marlow. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Man- 
trap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, 
Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and 
your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the 
place. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then it is a very merry 
place, I suppose? 

Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, 
and old women can make us. 

Miss Hardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle, 
ha! ha! ha! 

Marlow [aside]. Egad ! I don't quite like this 
chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, 
child? 

Miss Hardcastle. I can't but laugh to think 
what time they all have for minding their work or 
their family. 

Marlow [aside]. All's well; she don't laugh at 
me. [To her.] Do you ever work ''hild ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. There's not a 
screen or a quilt in the whole house but what can 
bear witness to that. 

Marlow. Odso! then you must show me your 
embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns my- 
self a little. If you want a judge of your work, you 
must apply to me. [Seizing her hand. 

Miss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colours do not 
look well by candle-hght. You shall see all in the 
morning. [Struggling. 

Marlow. And why not now, my angel ? Such 
beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. — 
Pshaw! the father here? My old luck: 1 never 
nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace three 
times following. [Exit Marlow, 

Enter HjVRDCASTLE, who stands in surprise. 

Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your 
modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that 
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored 
at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not 
ashamed to deceive your father so ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, 



210 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



but he's still the modest man I first took him for; 
you'll be convinced of it as well as I. 

Hardcastle. By the hand of my body I believe 
his impudence is infectious! Didn't I see him 
seize your hand? Didn't I see him haul you 
about like a milk-maid 7 And now you talk of 
his respect and his modesty, forsooth ! 

Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you 
of his modesty, that he has only the faults that 
will pass off with time, and the virtues that will 
improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. 

Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one 
run mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am 
convinced. He has scarce been three hours in 
the house, and he has already encroached on all 
my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, 
and call it modesty ; but my son-in-law, madam, 
must have very different qualifications. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to 
convince you. 

Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, 
for I have thoughts of turning him out this very 
hour. 

Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour then, and 
I hope to satisfy you. 

Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But 
I'll have no trifling with your father. All fair 
and open, do you mind me. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever 
found that I considered your commands as my 
pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as 
yet has been my incUnation. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 
Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. 

Hastings. Yon surprise me : Sir Charles Mar- 
low expected here this night! Where have you 
had your information 1 

Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just 
saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells 
him he intends setting out a few hours after his 
son. 

Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be 
completed before he arrives. He knows me ; and, 
should he find me here, would discover my name, 
and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family. 

Miss Neville. 'The jewels, I hope, are safe? 

Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Mar- 
low, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the 
mean time I'll go to prepare matters for our elope- 
ment. I have had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh 
pair of horses ; and if I should not see him again, 
will write him further directions. [Exit. 

Miss Neville. Well! success attend you. In 



the mean time I'll go amuse my aunt with the old 
pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. 

[Exit. 

Enter MAKLOW, followed by a Servant.- 

Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could mean 
by sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to 
keep for him, when he knows the only place I 
have is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. 
Have you deposited the casket with the landlady,- 
as I ordered you? Have you put it into her own 
hands? 

Servant. Yes, ybnr honour. 

Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she 1 

Servant. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe 
enough; she asked me how I came by it? and she 
said she had a great mind to make me give an ac- 
count of myself. [Exit Servant. 

Marlow. Ha! ha! ha! They're safe, how- 
ever. What an unaccountable set of beings have 
we got amongst! This little bar-maid though 
runs in my head most strangely, and drives out 
the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's 
mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 

Enter HASTINGS. 

Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her 
that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the 
garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too! 

Marlow, Give me joy, George! CrowTi me, 
shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, 
we modest fellows don't want for success among 
the women. 

Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what 
success has your honour's modesty been crowned 
with now, that it grows so insolent upon us? 

Marlow. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, 
lovely, little thing, that runs about the house with 
a bunch of keys to its girdle ? 

Hastings. Well, and what then? 

Marlow. She's mine, you rogue you. Sucb 
fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad! 
she would not let me kiss them though. 

Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of 
her? 

Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me 
her work above stairs, and I am to approve the 
pattern. 

Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about 
to rob a woman of her honour ? 

Marlow. Pshaw! pshaw! We all know the 
honour of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend 
to rob her, take my word for it; there's nothing in 
this house I shan't honestly pay for. 

Hastings. 1 believe the girl has -virtue. 

Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last 
man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



211 



Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
casket I sent you to lock up 7 It's in safety 1 

Marlow. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have 
taken care of it. But how could you think the 
seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safe- 
ty 7 Ah! numskull! I have taken better precau- 

■■iSbns for you than you did for yourself 1 

have — ■— 

Hastings. What 1 

Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep 
for you. 

Hastings. To the landlady ! 

Marlow. The landlady. 

Hastings. You did 1 

Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its 
forthcoming, you know. 

Hastings. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a wit- 
ness. 

Marlow. Wasn't I right 1 I believe you'll allow 
that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 

Hastings [aside]. He must not see my uneasi- 
ness. 

Marlow, You seem a little disconcerted though, 
raethinks. Sure nothing has happened 1 

Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better 
spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the 
landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook 
the charge. 

Marlow. Rather too readily. For she not only 
kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, 
was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! ha! 

Hastings. He! he! he! They're safe, however. 

Marlow. As a guinea in a misers purse. 

Hastings [aside]. So now all hopes of fortune 
are at an end, and we must set off without it. 
[ To kim.] Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your 
meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! 
he! may you be as successful for yourself as you 
have been for me ! [Exit. 

Marlow. Thank ye, George: I ask no more. 
Ha! ha! ha! 

Enter HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle. I no longer know my own house. 
It's turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got 
drunk already. I'll bear it no longer; and yet, 
from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. [To 
him.] Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very 
humble servant. [Bowing low. 

Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. [Aside.] 
What's to be the wonder now? 

Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, 
sir, that no man aUve ought to be more welcome 
than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so? 

Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want 
much entreaty. I generally make my father's son 
welcome wherever he goes. 

Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
But though I say nothing to your own conduct, 



that of your servants is insufferable. Their man- 
ner of drinking is setting a very bad example in 
this house, I assure you. 

Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no 
fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, 
they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the 
cellar. I did, I assure you. [ To the side-scene.] 
Here, let one of my servants come up. [ To him J] 
My positive directions were, that as I did not drink 
myself, they should make up for my deficiencies 
below. 

Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what 
they do ! I'm satisfied ! 

Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall 
hear from one of themselves. 

Enter SERVANT, drunk. 

Marlow. You, Jeremy! Come forward, sirrah! 
Whatwere my orders 1 Were you not told to drink 
freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the 
good of the house 7 

Hardcastle [aside]. I begin to lose my patience. 

Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet- 
street for ever! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as 
good as another man. I'll drink for no man before 
supper, sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a 
good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon — 
[hickuping] — upon my conscience, sir. 

Marlow. You see, my old friend, the fellow is 
as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know 
what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor 
devil soused in a beer-barrel. 

Hardcastle. Zounds ! he'll drive me distracted, 
if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow. Sir ; 
I have submitted to your insolence for more than 
four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to 
an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and 
I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave 
my house directly. 

Marlow. Leave your house ! Sure you jest, 

my good friend ! What ? when I'm doing what I 
can to please you. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; 
so I desire you'll leave my house. 

Marlow. Sure you can not be serious 1 at this 
time o' night, and such a night ? You only mean 
to banter me. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious! and 
now that my passions are roused, I say this house 
is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I command 
you to leave it directly. 

Marlow. Ha! ha! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I 
shan't stir a step, I assure you. [In a serious tone.J 
This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is 
my house. Mine, while I choose to stay» What 
right have you to bid me leave this house, sir 7 I 
never met with such impudence, curse me ; never 
in my whole Ufe before. 

Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. 



212 



GOLDSMITH'S WOJIKS. 



To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to 
turn mc out of my own chair, to insult the family, 
tj order his servants to get ilrunk, and then to tell 
mc, " This house is mine, sir." By all that's im- 
])udcnt it makes mc laugh. Hal ha! ha! Pray, 
'Sir, [bantering] as you take the house, what think 
you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a 
pair of silvei°candlcsticks, and there's a fire-screen, 
and here's a pair of bray.en-nosed bellows; perhaps 
you may take a fancy to them. 

Mavloic. Bring mcyour bill, sir ; bring me your 
bill, and let's have no more words about it. 

Hardcastlc. There arc a set of prints, too. What 
think you of the Rake's Progress for your own 
apartment 1 

Men-low. Bring me your bill, I say ; and I'll leave 
you and your infernal house directly. 

Hardcasllc. Then there's amahogany to.ble that 
vou may sec your face in. 

Marlon-. My bill, 1 say. 

Hcrdcasllc. I had forgot the great chair for your 
own jjarticular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 

Marhw. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and 
let's hear no more on't. 

Hardcasllc. Young man, young man, from your 
father's letter to me, I was taught to cx[icct a well- 
bred modest man as a visiter here, but now I find 
liim no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he 
will be down lierc presently, and shall hear more 
of it. l^-^-'^- 

Marloic. How's this! Sure I have not mistaken 
the house. Every thing looks like an inn ; the 
servants cry coming; the attendance is awkward ; 
the bar maid too to attend us. But she's here, and 
will further inform mc. Whither so fast, child. 
A word with you. 

Eiilei- MK3 II.^UDCASTLE. 

Miss Hardr.astJe. Let it be short, then. I'm in 
a hurry. [asidc.\ I believe lie begins to find out 
liis mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive 
him. 

MarloiB. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
What are you, and what may your business in this 
house be ? 

Miss Hardcasllc. A relation of the family, sir. 

Marloic. What, a poor relation? 

Miss Hardcasllc. Yes, sir; a poor relation ap- 
pointed to keep the Iceys, and to sec that the guests 
want nothing in my power to give them. 

Marloic. That is, you act as bar-maid of the inn. 

Miss Hardcasllc. Inn ! O la what brought 

that in your head? One of the best families in the 
county keep an inn — Ha! ha! ha! old Mr. Hard- 
castle's house an inn ! 

Marloic. Mr. Hardcastle's house. Is this Mr. 
Hardcastle's house, child ? 

M'uss Hardcasllc. Ay, sure. Whose else should 
it be7 



Marlow. So then, all's out, and I have been 
damnably imposed on. O, confound my stupid 
head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I 
shall be stuck up in caricature in all the print- 
shops. The Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mis- 
take this house of all others for an inn, and my 
father's old friend for an innkeeper ! What a swag- 
gering puppy must he take me for ? What a silly 
puppy do I find myself. There, again, may I be 
hang'd, my dear, but I mistook you for the bar- 
maid. 

Miss Hardcasllc. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure 
there's nothing in my behaviour to put me on a 
level with one of that stamp. 

Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I 
was in for a list of blunders, and could not help 
making you a subscriber. My stupidity sawevery 
thing the wrong way. 1 mistook your assiduity 
for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. 
But it's over — This house I no more show my 
face in. 

]^[iss Hardcasllc. I hope, sir, I have done no- 
thing to disoblige you. I'm sure 1 should be sorry 
to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, 
and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I 
should be sorry [pre I ending to cry] if he left the 
family upon my account. I'm sure 1 should be sorry 
pco[)le said any thing amiss, since 1 have no fortune 
but my character. 

Marlow [aside]. By Heaven! she weeps. This 
is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a 
modest woman, and it touches me. [ To her.] 
Excuse me, my lovely girl ; you are the only jjart 
of the family 1 leave with reluctance. But to be 
plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, 
and education, makes an honourable connexion 
impossible; and I can never harbour a thought of 
seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of 
bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was be- 
ing too lovely. 

Miss Hardcasllc [aside]. Generous man! I now 
begin to admire him. [To him.] But 1 am sure 
my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's; and 
though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a 
contented mind ; and, until this moment, I never 
thought that it was bad to want fortune. 

Marloic. And why now, my pretty simplicity 7 

Miss Hardcastlc. Because it puts me at a dis- 
tance from one that, if 1 had a thousand pounds, 1 
would give it all to. 

Marlow [aside]. This simplicity bewitches me, 
so that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one 
bold effort, and leave her. [To her.] Your par- 
tiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sen- 
sibly ; and were I to hve for myself alone, I could 
easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the 
opinion of the world, too much to the authority of 
a father ; so that — I can scarcely speak it — it allects 
mc. Farewell.- [Exit. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



213 



Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit 
till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to 
detain him. I'll still preserve the character in 
which I stooped to conquer, but will unJeceive my 
papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his 
resolution. \Exit. 

Enter TONV, MISS NEVILLE. , 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
time, I have done my duty. She has got the 
jewels again, that's a sure thing; but she believes 
it was all a mistake of the servants. 

Miss Neville. But my dear cousin, sure you 
won't forsake us in this distress 1 If she in the least 
suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be 
locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's which is 
ten times worse. 

Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damn- 
ed bad things. But what can I do 7 I have got 
you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle- 
jacket; and I'm sure you can't say but I have court- 
ed you nicely before her face. Here she comes, 
we must court a bit or two more, for fear she 
should suspect us. 

[They retire, and seem to fondle. 

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered 
to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mis- 
take of the servants. I shan't be easy, however, 
till they are fairly married, and then let her keep 
her own fortune. But what do I see 1 fondling 
together as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so spright- 
ly before. Ah ! have I caught you my pretty 
doves 1 What ! billing, exchanging stolen glances 
and broken murmurs 1 Ah ! 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble 
a little now and then to be sure. But there's no 
love lost between us. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, 
upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. 

Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises to give us 
more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't 
leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin To- 
n}', will it 1 

Tony. O ! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner 
leave my horse in apound, than leave you when you 
smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so be- 
coming. 

Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help 
admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, 
red, thoughtless, — [patting his cheek] ah! it's a 
bold face. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence ! 

Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's 

hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she 

twists this way and that over the haspicoUs, like a 

parcel of bobbins. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, he would charm the bird 



from the tree. I was never so happy before. My 
boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumplun, ex- 
actly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours 
incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a 
sweet boy, my dearl You shall be married to- 
morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education, 
like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. 

Enter DIGGORY. 

Diggory. Where's the 'Squire! I have got a let- 
ter for your worship. 

Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my 
letters first. 

Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your 
own hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from ? 

Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the 
letter itself. 

Tony. I could wish to know though. 

[ Turning the letter and gazing on it. 

Miss Neville [aside\. Undone! undone! A let- 
ter to him from Hasungs. I know the hand. If 
my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep 
her employed a little if I can. [ To Mrs. Hard- 
castle.] But I have not told you, madam, of my 
cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. 
We so laughed — You must know, madam — This 
way a little, for he must not hear us. 

[ They confer. 

Tony [still gazing]. A damned cramp piece of 
penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read 
your print hand very well. But here there are 
such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one 
can scarce tell the head from the tail. " To An- 
thony Lumpkin, esquire." It's very odd, 1 can 
read the outside of my letters, where my own name 
is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it's 
all buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the in- 
side of the letter is always the cream of the cor- 
respondence. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very 
well. And so my son was too hard for the phi- 
losopher. 

Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear 
the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he 
may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him 
atrain. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled 
now himself, methinks. 

Tony [still gazing]. A damned up and down 
hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. [Beading.] 
Dear sir, — Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, 
and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an 
izzard, or an R, confound me, I can not tell. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. What's that, my dear? Can 
I give you any assistance 7 

Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. No- 
body reads a cramp hand better than I. | Twiich^ 



214 



GOLDSMITH b WORKS. 



ing the letter from him.] Do you know who it 
is from 7 

Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
feeder. 

Miss Neville. Ay, so it is. [Pretending to 
read.] Dear 'Squire, hoping that your'e in health, 
as I am at this present. The gentlemen of the 
SLake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of the 
Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds— 

um odd battle um long fighting — um 

— here, here, it's all about cocks and fighting; it's 
of no consequence, here, put it up, put it up. 
[ Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.] 
Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the conse- 
quence in the world. I would not lose the rest of 
it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it 
out. Of no consequence ! 

[ Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. How's this! [Beads.] " Dear 
'Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a 
post-chaise and pair at the bottom of the garden, 
but I find my horses yet unable to perform the 
journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of 
fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is neces- 
sary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your mother will 
otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant 
me patience: I shall run distracted! My rage 
chokes me. 

Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you'll suspend 
your resentment for a few moments, and not im- 
pute to me any impertinence, or sinister design, 
that belongs to another. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [courtesying very low]. Fine 
spoken madam, you are most miraculously poUte 
and engaging, and quite the very pink of comrtesy 
and circumspection, madam. [Changing her 
tone.] And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with 
scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut; 
were you, too, joined against me 7 But I'll de- 
feat all yoiu: plots in a moment. As for you, ma- 
dam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses 
ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. So, 
if you please, instead of running away with your 
spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off with 
me. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you se- 
cure, I'll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount 
your horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, 
Thomas, Roger, Diggory! I'Ushowyou, that I wish 
you better than you do yourselves. [Exit. 

Miss Neville. So now I'm completely ruined. 

Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 

Miss Neville. What better could be expected 
from being connected with such a stupid fool, — and 
after all the nods and signs I made him 1 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own 
cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your 
business. You were so nice and so busy with your 
Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you 
could never be making believe. 



Enter HASTINGS. 

Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, that 
you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was 
this well done, young gentleman? 

Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there, who 
betrayed you? Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. 

Enter MAHLOW. 

Marlow. So I have been finely used here among 
you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-man- 
ners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 

Tony. Here's another. We shall have old Bed- 
lam broke loose presently. 

Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman 
to whom we all owe every obUgation. 

Marlow. What can I say to him ? a mere boy, 
an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 

Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that 
would but disgrace correction. 

Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice 
enough to make himself merry with all our embar- 
rassments. 

Hastings. An insensible cub. 

Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 

Tony. Baw ! dam'me, but I'll fight you both, 
one after the other with baskets. 

Marlow. As for him, he's below resentment. 
But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an ex- 
planation : you knew of my mistakes, yet would 
not undeceive me. 

Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own dis- 
appointments, is this a time for explanations 1 It 
is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 

Marlow. But, sir 

Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on 
your mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. 

Enter SERVANT. 

Servant. My mistress desires you'll get ready 
immediately, madam. The horses are putting to. 
Your hat and things are in the next room. We 
are to go thirty miles before morning. 

[Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. Well, well ; I'll come presently. 

Marlow [to Hastings]. Was it well done, sir, 
to assist in rendering me ridiculous 1 To hang me 
out for the scorn of all my acquaintance 1 Depend 
upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 

Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon 
that subject, to deliver what I intrusted to yourself, 
to the care of another, sir 7 

Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings. Mr. Marlow. 
Why will you increase my distress by this ground- 
less dispute? I implore, I entreat you 

Enter SERVANT. 

Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is 
impatient. [Exit Servant. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



Miss Neville. I come. Pray be pacified. If I 
leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. 

Enter SERVANT. 

Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. 
The horses are waiting. 

Miss Neville. O, Mr. Marlow, if you knew 
what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before 
me, I am sure it would convert your resentment 
into pity. 

Marlow. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas- 
sions, that I don't know what I da Forgive me, 
madam. George, forgive me. You know my 
hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. 

Hastings. The torture of my situation is my 
only excuse. 

Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you 
have tha:t esteem for me that I think, that I am 
sure you have, your constancy for three years will 
but increase the happiness of our future connexion. 
If 

Mrs. Hardcastle [within]. Miss Neville. Con- 
stance, why Constance, I say. 

Miss Neville. I'm coming. Well, constancy, 
remember, constancy is the word. [Exit. 

Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ? 
To be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 

Marlow [to Tony\ You see now, young gen- 
tleman, the effects of your folly. What might be 
amusement to you, is here disappointment, and 
even distress. 

Tony [from a reverie]. Ecod, I have hit it : 
it's here. Your hands. Yours and yours, my 
poor Sulky. — My boots there, ho! — Meet me two 
hours hence at the bottom of the garden ; and if 
you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-na- 
tured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you 
leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into 
the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 
Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT. 

Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Ne- 
ville drive off, you say? 

Servant. Yes, your honour. They went off in 
a post-coach, and the young 'Squire went on horse- 
back. They're thirty miles off by this time. 

Hastings. Then all my hopes are over. 

Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. 
He and the old gentleman of the house have been 
laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. 
They are coming this way. 

Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now 
to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the 
garden. This is about the time. 



Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone 
in which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 

Sir Charles. And the reserve with which 1 sup- 
pose he treated all your advances. 

Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen some- 
thing in me above a common innkeeper, too. 

Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for 
an uncommon innkeeper; ha! ha! ha! 

Hardcastle. Well, I'm in too good spirits to 
think of any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, 
this union of our families will make our personal 
friendships hereditary, and though my daughter's 
fortune is but small 

Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of for- 
tune to me 1 My son is possessed of more than a 
competence already, and can want nothing but a 
good and virtuous girl to share his happiness, and 
increase it. If they like each other, as you say 
they do 

Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each 
other. My daughter as good as told me so. 

Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter them- 
selves, you know. 

Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the 
warmest manner myself; and here he comes to put 
you out of your i/s, I warrant him. 

Enter MARLOW. 

Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon 
for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on 
my insolence without confusion. 

Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my 
daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never 
Uke you the worse for it. 

Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her ap- 
probation. 

Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr, 
Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something 
more than approbation thereabouts. You take me7 

Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 

Hardcastle. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and 
know what's what as well as you that are young- 
er. I know what has passed between you : but 
mum. 

Marlow, Sure, sir, nothing has passed between 
us but the most profound respect on my side, and 
the most distant reserve on hers. You don't think 
sir, that my impudence has been passed on all the 
rest of the family 1 

Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — 
not quite impudence — though girls like to be play- 
ed with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But 
she has told no tales, 1 assure you. 

Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause. 

Hardcastle. Well, well, I like modesty in its 
place well enough. But this is i^vpr-acting, young 



216 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



gentleman. You may be open. Your father and 
-I will like you the better for it. 

Marloic. May I die, sir, if I ever 

Hardcastle. I tell you, she don't disUkeyou ; and 

as I'm sure you like her 

Marlow. Dear sir — I protest, sir 

Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should 
not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 

Marloio. But hear me, sir 

Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I 
admire it; every moment's delay wiU be doing 

mischief, so 

Marlow. But why won't you hear me 7 By all 
that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle 
the slightest mark of my attachment, or eveii the 
most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We 
had but one interview, and that was formal, mod- 
est, and uninteresting. 

Hardcastle [aside]. This fellow's formal modest 
impudence is beyond bearing. 

Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, 
or made any protestations ? 

Marloio. As Heaven is my witness, I came down 
in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady 
without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I 
hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor 
prevent me from leaving a house in which I suiTer 
so many mortifications. [Exit. 

Sir diaries. I'm astonished at the air of sin- 
cerity with which he parted. 

Hardcastle. And I'm astonished at the delibe- 
rate intrepidity of his assurance. 

Sir Charles. I dare pledge my hfe and honour 
upon his truth. 

Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and 1 
would stake my happiness upon her veracity. 

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer 
us sincerely and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow 
made you any professions of love and affection 1 

Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, 
sir ! But since you require unreserved sincerity, I 
think he has. 

Hardcastle [to Sir Charles]. You see. 

Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and 
my son had more than one interview ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 

Hardcastle [to Sir Charles]. You see. 

Sir Charles. But did he profess any attach- 
ment 1 

Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. 

Sir Charles. Did he talk of love? 

Mi^ss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 

Sir Charles. Amazing ! and all this formally. 

Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 

Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are 
satisfied. 

Bi,r Charles. And how did he behave, madam'? 



Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers 
do : said some civil things of my face ; talked much 
of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; 
mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, 
and ended with pretended rapture. 

Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced in- 
deed. I know his conversation among women to 
be modest and submissive : this forward canting 
ranting manner by no means describe him ; and I 
am confident, he never sat for the picture. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then, what, sir, if I should 
convince you to your face of my sincerity! if you 
and my papa, in about half an hour, will place 
yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him 
declare his passion to me in person. 

Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what 
you describe, all my happiness in him must have 
an end. [Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. And if you don't find him 
what I describe — I fear my happiness must never 
have a beginning. [Exeunt, 



SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. 

Enter HASTINGS. 
Hastings. What an idiot am I, to wait here 
for a fellow who probably takes a delight in morti- 
fying me. He never intended to be punctual, and 
I'll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he! 
and perhaps with news of my Constance. 

Enter TONY, booted and spattered. 

Hastings. My honest 'Squire! I now find 
you a man of your word. This looks like friend- 
ship. 

Toni/. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend 
you have in the world, if you knew but all. This 
riding by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It 
has shook me worse than the basket of a stage- 
coach. 

Hastings. But how? where did you leave your 
fellow-travellers? Are they in safety? Are they 
housed? 

Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and 
a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts 
have smoked for it: Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride 
forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment. 

Hastings. Well, but where have you left the 
ladies? 1 die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them ! Why where should I leave 
them but where I found them. 

Hastings. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes 
round the house, and round the house, and never 
touches the house? 

Hastings. I'm still astray. 

Tomj. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them 
astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



217 



within five miles of the place but they can tell the 
taste of. 

Hastings, Ha! ha! ha! 1 understand: you 
took them in a round, while they supposed them- 
selves going forward, and so you have at last 
brought them home again. 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
Feather Bed-Lane, where we stuck fast in the 
mud. — I then rattled them crack over the stones of 
Up-and-down Hill. — I then introduced them to 
the gibbet on Heavy-Tree Heath ; and from that, 
with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the 
horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. 
Hastings. But no accident, I hope? 
Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly 
frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. 
She's sick of the journey; and the cattle can 
scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, 
you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound 
that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. 

Hastings My dear friend, how can I be 
grateful ? 

Tony. A.J, now it's dear friend, noble 'Squire. 
Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through 
the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. 
After we take a knock in this part of the country, 
we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me 
through the guts, then I should be dead, and you 
might go kiss the hangman. 

Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must 
hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the 
old lady employed, I promise to take care of the 
young one. 

Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Va- 
nish ! [Exit Hastings.^ She's got from the pond, 
and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. 

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook ! 
Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That 
last jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge, 
has done my business. 

Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own 
fitult. You would be for running away by night, 
without knowing one inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home 
again. I never met so many accidents in so short 
a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a 
ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and 
at last to lose our way. Whereabouts do you think 
we are, Tony 7 

Tony. By my guess we should come upon 
Crackskull Common, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. O lud! Olud! The most 
notorious spot in all the country. We only want 
a robbery to make a complete night on't. 

Tony. Don't be afraiu, mamma, don't be 
afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, 
and the other three may not find us. Don't be 



afraid.— Is that a man that's galloping behind us? 
No; it's only a tree. — Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Han-deastle. The fright will certainly kill 
me. 

Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat 
moving behind the thicket ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death! 

Tony. No; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, 
mamma, don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a 
man coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If 
he perceives us we are undone. 

Tony [aside]. Father-in-law, by all that's un- 
lucky, come to take one of his night walks. [ To 
her]. Ah ! it's a highwayman with pistols as long 
as my arm. A damn'd ill-looking fellow. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven defend us ! He 
approaches. 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, 
I'll cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure 
to keep close. 

[Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in 
the back scene. 

Enter HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of 
people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you '7 I 
did not expect you so soon back. Are your mo- 
ther and her charge in safety 1 

Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. 
Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Ah, death ! I 
find there's danger. 

Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours; sure 
that's too much, my youngster. 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make 
short journeys, as they say. Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Sure he'll do 
the dear boy no harm. 

Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here; I should 
be glad to know from whence it came. 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was 
saying that forty miles in four hours was very good 
going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I 
have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. 
We'll go in if you please. Hem. 

Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself you 
did not answer yourself. I'm certain I heard two 
voices, and am resolved [raising his voice] to find 
the other out. 

Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Oh I he's 
coming to find me out. Oh ! 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? 
Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth — hem — 
I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him. 

Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. I 
insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe 
you. 



218 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Mrs. Hardcastle [running forward from be- 
hind]. O lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my dar- 
ling! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon 
me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young 
gentleman ; spare my child, if you have any mercy. 
Hardcastle. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From 
whence can she come ? or what does she mean 7 

Mrs. Hardcastle [kneeling]. Take compassion 
on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, 
our watches, all we have, but spare our Uves. We 
will never bring you to justice, indeed we won't, 
good Mr. Highwayman. 

Hardcastle. 1 believe the woman's out of her 
senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! 
My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could 
have expected to meet you here, in this frightful 
place, so far from home? What has brought you 
to follow us ? 

Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits 1 So far from home, when you are within for- 
ty yards of your own door! [ To him.] This is 
one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you. 
[ To her.] Don't you know the gate and the mul- 
berry tree; and don't you remember the horse- 
pond, my dear 7 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the 
horse-pond as long as I live ; I have caught my 
death in it. [ To Tony.] And is it to you, you 
graceless varlet, I owe all this? I'll teach you to 
abuse your mother, I will. 

Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 
Mrs. Hardcastle. I'll spoil you, I will. 

[I<^ollows him off the Stage. Exit. 
Hardcastle. There's morality, however, in his 
reply. [Exit. 

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. 

Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you 
deliberate thus? If we delay a moment, all is lost for 
ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall 
soon be out of the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are 
so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that 1 
am unable to face any new danger. Two or three 
years' patience will at last crown us with happiness. 

Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than 
inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us 
date our happiness from this very moment. Perish 
fortune ! Love and content will increase what we 
possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me pre- 
vail. 

Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence 
once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its 
dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may 
be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repent- 
ance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's 
compassion and justice for redress. 



Hastings. But though he had the will, he has 
not the power to relieve you. 

Miss Neville. But he has influence, and opon 
that I am resolved to rely. 

Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you per- 
sist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. 

SCENE CHANGES. 

Enter SIR CHARLES MARLOW and MISS HARD- 
CASTLE. 

Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what 
you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If 
what he Says be true, I shall then lose one that, of 
all others, I most wished for a daughter. 

Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approba- 
tion ; and to show I merit it, if you place your- 
selves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit de- 
clarations. But he comes. 

Sir Charles. I'll to your father and keep him to 
the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles, 

Enter MARLOW. 

Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I 
come once more to take leave ; nor did I till this 
moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. 

Miss Hardcastle [in her own natural manner], 
I believe these sufferings can not be very great, sir, 
which you can so easily remove. A day or two 
longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by 
showing the little value of what you think proper 
to regret. 

Marlow [aside]. This girl every moment im- 
proves upon me. [ To her.] It must not be, madam. 
I have already trifled too long with my heart. My 
very pride begins to submit to my passion. The 
disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a 
parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to 
lose their weight ; and nothing can restore me to 
myself but this painful effort of resolution. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir: I'll urge nothing 
more to detain you. Though my family be as good 
as hers you came down to visit, and my education, 
I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages 
without equal affluence ? I must remain contented 
with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I 
must have only the mockery of your addresses^ 
while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. 

Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CILA.RLES MARLOW 

from behind. 

Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 

Hardcastle, Ay, ay ; make no noise. I'll en- 
gage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. 

Marlow. By Heavens! madam, fortune was 
ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at 
first caught my eye, for who could see that without 
emotion ? But every moment that I converse with 
you, steals in some new grace, heightens the pic- 
ture, and gives it stronger expression. What at 



SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER. 



S19 



first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined 
simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now 
strikes me as the result of courageous innocence 
and conscious virtue. 

Sir Charles. What can it mean? He amazes me! 
Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush! 
Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, 
and I have too good an opinion of my father's dis- 
cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approba- 
tion. 

Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, 
can not detain you. Do you think I could suffer 
a connexion in which there is the smallest room 
for repentance 1 Do you think I would take the 
mean advantage of a transient passion to load you 
with confusion ? Do you think 1 could ever relish 
that happiness which was acquired by lessening 
yours? 

Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no hap- 
piness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor 
shall 1 ever feel repentance but in not having seen 
your merits before. I will stay even contrary to 
your wishes; and though you should persist to 
shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities 
atone for the levity of my past conduct. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll de- 
sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in 
indifference. I might have given an hour or two 
to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think 
I could ever submit to a connexion where I must 
appear mercenary, and you imprudent 1 Do you 
think I could ever catch at the confident addresses 
of a secure admirer 1 

Marlow \kneeling\. Does this look like securi- 
ty? Does this look like confidence 7 No, madam, 
every moment that shows me your merit, only 
serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. 
Here let me continue 

Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your 
indifference, your uninteresting conversation 7 

Hardcastle. Your cold contempt; your formal 
interview ! What have you to say now ? 

Marlow. That I'm all amazement ! What can 
it mean 1 

Hardcastle. It means that you can say and un- 
say things at pleasure : that you can address a lady 
in private, and deny it in public : that you have 
one story for us, and another for my daughter. 

Marlow. Daughter! — This lady your daughter? 

Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter: my 
Kate ; whose else should she be ? 

Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical 
tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me 
for ; [courlesyivg] she that you addressed as the 
mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the 



Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it's 
worse than death ! 

Miss Hardcastle. In which of your characters, 
sir, will you give us leave to address you ? As the 
faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that 
speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or 
the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with 
Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till 
three in the morning ? — Ha! ha! ha! 

Marlow. O, curse on my noisy head ! I never 
attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken 
down ! I must be gone. 

Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, but you 
shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am re- 
joiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I 
know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, 
Kate ? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 
[ Theij retire, she tormenting him to the 

back scene. 
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE, TONY. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they're gone off". Let 
them go, I care not. 

Hardcastle. Who gone ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gen- 
tleman, Mr. Hastings, from towm. He who came 
down with our modest visiter here. 

Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hast- 
ings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl 
could not have made a more prudent choice. 

Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
proud of the connexion. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away 
the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that re- 
mains in this family to console us for her loss. 

Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
mercenary ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 

Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of 
age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune 
is then at her own disposal. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and 
she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 
Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. 



Mrs. Hardcastle [aside'l. What, returned so 
soon ! I begin not to like it. 

Hastings [to Hardcastle^ For my late attempt 
to fly off" with your niece, let my present confusion 
be my punishment. We are now come back, to 
appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her 
father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and 
our passions were first founded in duty. 

Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been 
obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppres- 
sion. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to 
give up my fortune to secure my choice : but I'm 
now recovered from the delusion, and hope from 



bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club, your tenderness what is denied me from a neare 
Ha! ha! ha! ' 



I connexion. 



220 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS^ 



Mrs, Hardcastle. Pshaw, pshaw; this is all but 
the whining end of a modern novel. 

Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're 
come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, 
Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom 
I now offer you. 

Tony. "What signifies my refusing 7 You know 
I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 

Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your 
age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improve- 
ment, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep 
it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong 
use, I must now declare you have been of age these 
three months. 

Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father 1 

Hardcastle. Above three months. 

Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of 
my liberty. [Taking Miss Neville^ s hand.] Wit- 
ness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony 
Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, 
Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for 
my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville 
may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin 
is his own man again. 

Sir Charles. O brave 'Squire! 

Hastings. My worthy friend. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My undutiful offspring ! 

Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy 
sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little ty- 
rant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the hap- 
piest man alive, if you would return me the favour. 

Hastings [to Miss Hardcastle]. Come, madam, 
you are now driven to the very last scene of all 
your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure 
he loves you, and you must and shall have him. 

Hardcastle [joining their hands]. And I say 
so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good 
a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll 
ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To- 
morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish 
about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be 
crovi^ned with a merry morning : so, boy, take her ; 
and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my 
wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the 
wife, [Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE, BY DR. GOLDSMITH, 

RPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY, IN THE CHARACTER OF 

MISS HARDCASTLE. 

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, 
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, 
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too. 
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you: 
And let me say, for all your resolution. 
That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
Our life is all a play, composed to please, 
" We Jiavo our exits and our entrances." 



The first act shows: the simple country maid^ 
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid v 
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning actioik. 
" I hopes as how to give you satisfaction." 
Her second act displays a livelier scene-^— 
The unblushing bar-maid of a country ixiHf 
Who whisks about the house, at market eatery 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and sfiolds; thft 

waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soaxs^ 
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. 
On 'squires and cits she there displays her art% 
And on the gridiron broils her lovers? hearts — ■. 
And as she smiles, her triumphs to Complete^, 
E'en common-council men foiget to eat. 
The fourth acts shows her wedded to the 's(^ui]!Qi 
And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro ! 
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro: 
Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride 
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside: 
Ogles and lears with artificial skill, 
Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 
Such, through our lives the eventful history — 
The fifth and last act still remains for me. 
The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 



EPILOGUE,* 

To be spoken in the character of Tony LumpMn, 

BY J. CRADOCK, ESCl. 

Well — now all's ended — and my comrades gone, 
Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son? 
A hopeful blade! in town I'll fix my station, 
And try to make a bluster in the nation : 
As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her, 
Off — ^in a crack — I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. 

Why should not I in the great world appear 1 
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a-year ! 
No matter what a man may here inherit, 
In London — 'gad, they've some regard to spirit. 
I see the horses prancing up the streets. 
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 
Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes, every night — 
Not to the plays — they say it a'n't polite; 
To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go. 
And once, by chance, to the roratorio. 
Thus here and there, for ever up and down, 
We'll set the fashions too to half the town ; 
And then at auctions — money ne'er regard, 
Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a-yard : 
Zounds! we shall make these London gentry say, 
We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they. 



' This came too late to be speken. 



A1V ORATORIO. 



THE PERSONS. 

First Jewfsh Prophet. 
Second Jewish Prophet. 
IsRjiELiTisH Woman. 
First Chaldean Priest. 
Second Chal]>ean Priest. 
Chaldean Woman. 
Chords of Youths and Virrins. 
Scene. — The Banks of the River EtfpHRATES, 
NEAR Babylon. 



ACT 1. 
FIRST PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep 
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep, 
Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, 
And turn to God, your father and your friend. 
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe, 
Our God alone is all we boast below. 

AIR. 
FIRST PROPHET. 
Our God is all we boast below, 

To him we turn our eyes ; 
And every atlded weight of woe 
Shall make our homage rise. 

SECOND PROPHET. 
And though no temple richly dressed, 

Nor sacrifice are here ; 
We'll make his temple in our breast, 
And offer up a tear. 

[The first Stanza repeatetl by the CHORUS. 

ISRAEI.ITISH WOMAN. 

RECITATIVE. 

That strain once more; it Lids remembrance rise. 
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. 
Ye fields of Sharon, dressed in flowery })ride, 
Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide. 
Ye hills of Lebanon, vrith cedars crown'd, 
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, 
How sweet those groves, that plain how wondrous 

fair. 
How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us 

there!. 



O memory, thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain ; 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

Hence intruder most distressing. 
Seek the happy and the free : 

The wretch who wants each other blessing, 
Ever wants a friend in thee. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Yet why complain 1 What though by bonds con- 
fined. 
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind) 
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 
Ourselves alone from idol worship free ? 
Are not this very morn those feasts begun 
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun 1 
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 
For superstitious rites and mirth profane 7 
And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly. 
When vaunting folly lifts her head on high 1 
No; rather let us triumph still the more, 
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. 

AIR. 

The triumphs that on vice attend 
Shall ever in confusion end ; 
The good man suffers but to gain. 
And every v^tue springs from pain : 
As aromatic plants bestow 
No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground, 
Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 

The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ea? ; 

Triumphant music floats along the vale. 

Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale ; 

The growing sound their swift approach declares. 

Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 

Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS attenilea. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

AIR. 

Come on, my companions, the triumph dispkiy. 
Let rapture the minutes employ 



•222 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



The sun calls us out on this festival day, 
And our monarch partakes in the joy. 

SECOND PRIEST. 
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture sup- 
plies. 
Both similar blessings bestow ; 
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies, 
And our monarch enlivens below. 

AIR. 
CHALDEAN WOMAN. 
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure. 
Love presents the fairest treasure. 
Leave all other joys for me. 

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 
Or rather, love's delights despising. 
Haste to raptures ever rising, 

Wine shall bless the brave and free. 

FIRST PRIEST. 
Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
Each to different joys exciting, 
Whither shall my choice inchne 1 

SECOND PRIEST. 
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing. 
But, neither this nor that refusing, 
I'll make them both together mine. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the 

land. 
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive bandl 
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung"? 
Or why those harps on yonder willows hungi 
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along. 
The day demands it; sing us Sion's song. 
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, 
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre? 



Every moment as it flows. 
Some peculiar pleasure owes. 
Come then, providently wise. 
Seize the debtor as it flies. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Think not to-morrow can repay 
The debt of pleasure lost to-day. 
Alas ! to-morrow's richest store 
Can but pay its proper score. 

SECOND PROPHET 

RECITATIVE. 

Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind, 
To want, to toil, and every ill consign' d. 



Is this a time to bid us raise the strain. 

Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain? 

No, never. May this hand forget each art 

That wakes to finest joys the human heart, 

Ere I forget the land that gave me birth. 

Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 

SECOND PRIEST. 
Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail, 
More formidable terrors shall prevail. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer— 
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 

[Exeunt Chaldeans. 

CHORDS OF ISRAELITES. 
Can chains or tortures bend the mind 
On God's supporting breast reclined? 
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see 
That fortitude is victory. [ExeunL 



ACT II. 

ISRAELITES and CHALDEANS, as before. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

AIR. 

O peace of mind, angelic guest. 
Thou soft companion of the breast. 

Dispense thy balmy store ! 
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies^ 
Till earth receding from our eyes, 

Shall vanish as we soar. 

FIRST PROPHET 

RECITATIVE. 

No more. Too long has justice been delay'd, 
The king's commands must fully be obey'd ; 
CompUance with his will your peace secures, 
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
But if, rebellious to his high command. 
You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand. 
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind} 
Reflect, nor tempt to 'rage the royal mind. 



Fierce is the tempest howling 
Along the furrow' d main. 

And fierce the whirlwind rolling 
O'er Afric's sandy plain. 

But storms that fly 

To rend the sky. 
Every ill presaging. 

Less dreadful show 

To worlds below 
Than angry monarch's raging. 



ORATORIO. 



223 



ISRAEUTISH WOMAN. 

RECITATIVE. 

Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow, 
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten' d blow ! 
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! 
Ah ! let us one, one Uttle hour obey ; 
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away 

AIR. 

Fatigued with life, yet loth to part, 

On hope the wretch relies ; 
And every blow that sinks the heart 

Bids the deluder rise. 
Hope, like the taper's gleamy light, 

Adorns the wretch's way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Why this delay ? At length for joy prepare. 
I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
Gome on, and bid the warbling rapture rise, 
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies. 
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, 
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. 

CfiALDEAN WOMAN. 

AIR. 

See the ruddy morning smiling, 
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; 
Zephyrs through the woodland playing, 
Streams along the valley straying. 

FIRST PRIEST. 
While these a constant revel keep, 
Shall reason only teach to weep 7 
Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
Nature, a better guide than you. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But hold ! see, foremost of the captive choir, 
The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. 
Mark where he sits with executing art, 
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart ; 
See how prophetic rapture fills his form. 
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm. 
And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

AIR. 

From north, from south, from east, from wes^ 

Conspiring nations come ; 
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast; 

Blasphemers, all be dumb. 



The tempest gathers all around. 

On Babylon it lies ; 
Down with her ! down, down to the ground 

She sinks, she groans, she dies. 

SECOND PROPHET. 
Down with her. Lord, to lick the dust^ 

Before yon setting sun ; 
Serve her as she hath served the just ! 

Tis fix'd — It shall be done. 

FIRST PRIEST. ^ 

RECITATIVE. 

No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, 
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom^ 
Unthinking wretches ! have not you, and all, 
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes ; 
See where dethroned your captive monarch lies, 
Deprived of sight, and rankUng in his chain ; 
See where he mourns his friends and children slain, 
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more con- 
fined. 

CHORUS OF ALL. 

Arise, all potent ruler, rise. 

And vindicate thy people's cause j 

Till every tongue in every land 
Shall offer up unfeign'd applause. 

[Exeunt 



ACT IIL 

RECITATIVE. 
FIRST PRIEST. 
Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are pass'd, 
And our fix'd empire shall for ever last; 
In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, 
In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 
Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 
And still our justice crush the traitor's head. 

AIR. 

Coeval with man 
Our empire began. 
And never shall fdl 
Till ruin shakes all. 
When ruin shakes all. 
Then shall Babylon fall, 

SECOND PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head, 
A little while, and all their power is fled. 
But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
That onward slowly bends along the plain "^ 



S34 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear 
A pallid corse, and rest the body there. 
Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace 
The last remains of Judah's royal race. 
Fall'n is our King, and all our fears are o'er, 
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. 



Ye wretches who by fortune's hate 

In want and sorrow groan, 
Come ponder his severer fate, 

And learn to bless your own. 

FIRST PROPHET. 
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 

Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
Like yours, his life began in pride, 

Like his, your lives shall end. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn. 
His squaUd limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; 
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare, 
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! 
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, 
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low 1 
How long, how long. Almighty God of all. 
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ! 

ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 

AIR. 

As panting flies the hunted hind. 
Where brooks refreshing stray ; 

And rivers through the valley wind. 
That stop the hunter's way. 

Thus we, O Lord, alike distressed, 

For streams of mercy long ; 
Streams which cheer the sore oppressed. 

And overwhelm the strong. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But whence that shout? Good heavens amaze- 
ment all ! 
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : — 
And now behold the battlements recline — 
O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 

CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. 
Down with them. Lord, to lick the dust ; 
Thy vengeance be begun ; 



Serve them as they have served the just, 
And let thy will be done. 



FIRST PRIEST. 



RECITATIVE. 



All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails, 
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails. 
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along, — 
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
And give repentance but an hour's delay. 

FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST 

AIR. 

O happy, who in happy hour 

To God their praise bestow. 
And own his all-consuming power 

Before they feel the blow ! 

SECOND PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Now, now's our time ! ye wretches bold and bUnd, 
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 
Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before. 
Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom are no 
more. 



O Lucifer, thou son of morn. 

Of Heaven alike and man the foe ; 

Heaven, men and all. 

Now press thy fall. 
And sink thee lowest of the low. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 

Thy streets forlorn 
^ To wilds shall turn. 
Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Such be her fate. But hark ! how from afar 
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war! 
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, 
And this way leads his formidable band. 
Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, 
And hail the benefactor of mankind ; 
IJ.e comes pursuant to divine decree. 
To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 

CHORUS OP YOUTHS. 

Rise to transports past expressing, 
Sweeter by remember'd woes ; 

Cyrus comes our wrongs redressing. 
Comes to give the world repose. 



ORATORIO. 



235 



CHORUS OP VIRGINS. 



Cyras comes, the world redressing, 
Love and pleasure in his train; 

Comes to heighten every blessing, 
Comes to soften every pain. 



SEMI-CHORUS. 



Hail to him with mercy reigning, 
SkilI'd in every peaceful art ; 



Who from bonds our Umbs unchaining, 
. Only binds the willing heart. 



THE LAST CHORUS. 



But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend, 
Let praise be given to all eternity ; 

O Thou, without beginning, without end, 
Let us and all begin, and end, in Thee. 



15 



^vtt^tt^ un^ €^vititium. 



THE PREFACE 

to DR. BKOOKES'S NE^Y AND ACCURATE SYSTEM OF 

NATURAL HISTORY. 

[PublisheJ in 1753.] 

Of all the studies which have employed the in- 
dustrious or amused the idle, perhaps natural his- 
tory deserves the preference : other sciences gene- 
rally terminate in doubt, or rest in bare specula- 
tion ; but here every step is marked with certainty ; 
and, while a description of the objects around us 
teaches to supply our wants, it satisfies our cu- 
riosity. 

The multitude of nature's productions, how- 
ever, seems at first to bewilder the inquirer, rather 
than excite his attention ; the various wonders of 
the animal, vegetable, or mineral world, seem to 
exceed all powers of computation, and the science 
appears barren from its amazing fertility. But a 
nearer acquaintance with this study, by giving 
method to our researches, points out a similitude 
in many objects which at first appeared differeiir; 
the mind by degrees rises to consider the things 
before it in general lights, till at length it finds na- 
ture, in almost every instance, acting with her 
usual simplicity. 

Among the number of philoso])hers who, un- 
daunted by their supposed variety, have attempted 
to give a description of the productions of nature, 
Aristotle deserves the first place. This great phi- 
losopher, was furnished, by his pupil Alexander, 
with all that the then known world could produce 
to complete his design. By such parts of his work 
as have escaped the wreck of time, it appears, that 
he understood nature more cleaily, and in a more 
comprehensive manner, than even the present 
age, enlightened as it is with so many later dis- 
coveries, can boast. His design appears vast, and 
his knowledge extensive ; he only considers things 
in general lights, and leaves every subject when it 
becomes too minute or remote to be useful. In his 
History of Animals, he first describes man, and 
makes him a standard with which to compare the 
deviations in every more imperfect kind that is to 
follow. But if he has excelled in the history of 
each, he, together with Pliny and Theophrastus, 
laas failed in the exactness of their descriptions. 



There are many creatures, described by those natu- 
ralists of antiquity, which are so imperfectly cha- 
racterized, that it is impossible to tell to what ani- 
mal now subsisting we can refer the description. 
This is an unpardonable neglect, and alone suffi- 
cient to depreciate their merits ; but their creduli- 
ty, and the mutilations they have suffered by time, 
have rendered them still less useful, and justify 
each subsequent attempt to improve what they 
have left behind. The most laborious, as well as 
the most voluminous naturalist among the mo- 
derns, is Aldrovandus. He was furnished with 
every requisite for making an extensive body of 
natural history. He was learned and lirli, and 
during the course of a long life, indefatigable and 
accurate. But his works areinsupportabiy tedious 
and disgusting, filled with unnecessary quotations 
and unimportant digressions. Whatever learning 
he had he was willing should be known, and un- 
wearied himselfj he supposed his readers could 
never tire : in short, he afipears a useful assistant 
to those who would compile a body of natural his- 
tory, but is utterly uns»iited to such as only wish 
to read it with profit and dehght. 

Gesner and Jonston, willing to abridge the vo- 
luminous productions of Aldrovandus, have at- 
tempted to reduce natural history into method, but 
their efforts have been so incomplete as scarcely to 
deserve mentioning. Their attempts were improv- 
ed upon, some time after, by Mr. Ray, whose me- 
thod we have adopted in the history of quadrupeds, 
birds, and fishes, which is to follow. No systema- 
tical writer has been more happy than he in reduc- 
ing natural history into a form, at once the shortest, 
yet most comprehensive. 

The subsequent attempts of Mr. Klein and Lin- 
naeus, it is true, have had their admirers, but, as 
all methods of classing the productions of nature 
are calculated merely to ease the memory and en- 
lighten the mind, that writer who answers such 
ends with brevity and perspicuitj', is most worthy 
of regard. And, in this respect, Mr, Ray undoubt- 
edly remains still without a rival : he was sensible 
that no accurate idea could be formed from a mere 
distribution of animals in particular classes; he 
has therefore ranged them according to their most 
obvious qualities; and, content with brevity in his 
distribution, has employed accuracy only in the 
particular description of every animal. This in 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



some measure satisfied. Such of them as have 
been more generally admired, have been longest in- 
sisted upon, and particularly caterpillars and but- 
terflies, relative to which, perhaps, there is the 
largest catalogue that has ever appeared m the 
English language. 

Mr. Edwards and Mr. Bufibn, one in the His- 
tory of Birds, the other of Gluadrupcds, have un- 
doubtedly deserved highly of the public, as far as 
their labours have extended ; but as they have 
hitherto cultivated but a small jjart in the wide iicld 
of natural history, a comprehensive system in this 
most pleasing science has been hitherto wanting. 
Nor is it a little surprising, when every ctlicr 
branch of literature has been of late cultivated with 
so much success among us, how this most interest- 
ing department should have been neglected. It 
has been long obvious that Aristotle was incon^- 
plete, and Pliny credulous, Aldrovandus too prolix, 
and Linnseus too short, to afford the proper enter- 
tainment; yet we have had no attcmi^ts lo =apply 
their defects, or to give a history of nature at onco 
complete and concise, calculated at once to please 
and improve. 

How far the author of the present performai'.cc 
has obviated the wants of the public in these re- 
spects, is left to the world to determine ; this n^.uch, 
of this science. Our own countryman Moufett is I however, he may without vanity assert, that whcth- 
the first of any note that I have met with who has er the system here presented be ajiprovcd or not, 
treated this subject with success. However, it he has left the science in a better state than 



tentional inaccuracy only in the general system of 
Ray, Klein and Linnaeus have undertalien to 
amend : and thus by multiplying divisions, instead 
of impressing the mind with distinct ideas, they 
only serve to confound it, making the language of 
the science more difficult than even the science it- 
self. 

All order whatsoever is to be used for the sake 
of brevity and perspicuity ; we have therefore fol- 
lowed that of Mr. Ray in preference to the rest, 
whose method of classing ani.mals, though not so 
accurate, perhaps, is yet more obvious, and being 
shorter, is more easily remembered. In his life- 
time he published his " Synopsis Methodica GLuad- 
rupedum et Serpentini Generis, " and, after his 
death, there came out a posthumous work under the 
care of Dr. Derham, which, as the title-page in- 
forms us, was revised and perfected before his 
death. Both the one and the other have their 
merits ; but as he wrote currente calamo, for sub- 
sistence, they are coiisequently replete with errors, 
and though his manner of treating natural history 
be preferable to that of all others, yet there was 
still room for a new work, that might at once retain 
his excellencies, and supply liis deficiencies. 

As to the natural history of insects, it has not 
been so long or so greatly cultivated as other parts 



was not till lately that it was reduced to a regular 
system, which might be, in a great measure, owing 
to the seeming insignificancy of the animals them- 
selves, even though they were always looked upon 
as of great use in medicine ; and upon that account 
only have been taken notice of by many medical 
writers. Thus Dioscorides has treated of their 
use in physic ; and it must be owned, some of them 
have been well worth observation on this account. 
There were not wanting also tliose who long since 
had thoughts of reducing this kind of knowledge 
to a regular form, an ong whom was Mr. Ray, 
who was discouraged by the dililculty attending it : 
this study has been pursued of late, however, with 
diligence and success. Reaumur and Swammer- 
dam have principally distinguished themselves on 
this account ; and their respective treatises plainly 
show, that they did not spend their labour in vain. 
Since their time, several authors have published 
their systems, among whom is Linnaeus, whose 
method being generally esteemed, I have thought 
proper to adopt. He has classed them in a very 
regular manner, though he says but little of the 
insects themselves. However, I have endeavoured 
to supply that defect from other parts of his works, 
and from other authors who have written upon 
this subject ; by which means, it is hoped, the curi- 
osity of such as delight in these studies will be in 



found it. He has consulted every autiior whcm ho 
imagined might give him new and authentic infor- 
mation, and i)ainfully searched through hcajis of 
lumber to detect falsehood ; so that many parts of 
the following work have exhausted much lalouria 
the execution, though they may discover little to 
the superficial observer. 

Noi' have I neglected any opportunity that offer- 
ed of conversing upon these sulijects with travel- 
lers, upon whose judgments and veracity I could 
rely. Thus comparing accurate narralions with 
what has been already written, and following 
cither, as the circumstances or crediliility of tlic 
witness led me to believe. But I have had one 
advantage over almost all former naturalists, name- 
ly, that of having visited a variety of countries my- 
self, and examined the productions of each upon 
the spot. Whatever America or the known parts 
of Africa have produced to excite curiosity, has 
been carefully observed by me, and compared with 
the accounts of others. By this I have made sonic 
improvements that will appear in their place, and 
have been less liable to be imposed upon by the 
hearsay relations of creduhty, 

A complete, cheap, and commodious body of 
natural history being wanted in our language, it 
was these advantages which prompted me to this 
undertaking. Such, therefore, as chocso to range 



228 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



in the delightful fields of nature, will, I flatter my- 
self, here find a proper guide ; and those who have 
a design to furnish a cabinet, will find copious in- 
structions. With one of these volumes in his 
hand, a spectator may go through the largest mu- 
seum, the British not excepted, see nature through 
all her varieties, and compare her usual operations 
with those wanton productions in which she seems 
to sport with human sagacity. I have been spar- 
ing, however, in the description of the deviations 
from the usual course of production ; first, because 
such are almost infinite, and the natural historian, 
who should spend his time in describing deformed 
nature, would be as absurd as the statuary, who 
should fix upon a deformed man from whom to 
take his model of perfection. 

But I would not raise expectations in the reader 
which it may not be in my power to satisfy : he 
who takes up a book of science must not expect to 
acquire knowledge at the same easy rate that a 
reader of romance does entertainment; on the con- 
trary, all sciences, and natural history among the 
rest, have a language and a manner of treatment 
peculiar to themselves; and he who attempts to 
dress them in borrowed or foreign ornaments, is 
every whit as uselessly employed as the German 
apothecary we are told of, who turned the whole 
dispensatory into verse. It will be sufiicient for 
me, if the following system is found as pleasing as 
the nature of the subject will bear, neither obscured 
by an unnecessary ostentation of science, nor 
lengthened out by an affected eagerness after need- 
less embellishment. 

The description of every object will be found as 
clear and concise as possible, the design not being 
to amuse the ear with well-turned periods, or the 
imagination with borrowed ornaments, but to im- 
press the mind with the simplest views of nature. 
To answer this end more distinctly, a picture of 
such animals is given as we are least acquainted 
with. All that is intended by this is, only to guide 
the inquirer with more certainty to the object itself, 
as it is to be found in nature. I never would ad- 
vise a student to apply to any science, either anato- 
my, physic, or natural history, by looking on pic- 
tures only; they may serve to direct him more 
readily to the objects intended, but he must by no 
means suppose himself possessed of adequate and 
distinct ideas, till he has viewed the things them- 
selves, and not their representations. 

Copper-plates, therefore, moderately well done, 
answer the learner's purpose every whit as well as 
those which can not be purchased but at a vast ex- 
pense ; they serve to guide us to the archetypes in 
nature, and this is all that the finest picture should 
1)3 permitted to do, for nature herself ought al- 
ways to be examined by the learner before he has 



INTRODUCTION 

TO A NEW 

HISTORY OF THE WORLD. 

[Intended to have been published in twelve volumes, octavo, 
by J. Newberry, 1764.] 



TO THE PUBLIC. 

Experience every day convinces us, that no 
part of learning affords so much wisdom upon such 
easy terms as history. Our advances in most other 
studies are slow and disgusting, acquired with ef- 
fort, and retained with difficulty; but in a well- 
written history, every step we proceed only serves 
to increase our ardour : we profit by the experience 
of others, without sharing their toils or misfortunes; 
and in this part of knowledge, in a more particular 
manner, study is but relaxatioiL 

Of all histories, however, that which is not con- 
fined to any particular reign or country, but which 
extends to the transactions of all mankind, is the 
most useful and entertaining. As in geography 
we can have no just idea of the situation of one 
country, without knowing that of others ; so in his- 
tory; it is in some measure necessary to be ac- 
quainted with the whole thoroughly to comprehend 
a part. A knowledge of universal history is there- 
fore highly useful, nor is it less entertaining. Ta- 
citus complains, that the transactions of a few 
reigns could not afford him a sufficient stock of ma- 
terials to please or interest the reader ; but here that 
objection is entirely removed; a Histoiy of the 
World presents the most striking events, with the 
greatest variety. 

These are a part of the many advantages which 
universal history has over all others, and which 
have encouraged so many writers to attempt com- 
piling works of this kind among the ancients, as 
well as the moderns. Each invited by the manifest 
utility of the design, yet many of them failing 
through the great and unforeseen difficulties of the 
undertaking ; the barrenness of events in the early 
periods of history, and their fertility in modem 
times, equally serving to increase their embarrass- 
ments. In recounting the transactions of remote 
antiquity, there is such a defect of materials, that 
the willingness of mankind to supply the chasm has 
given birth to falsehood, and invited conjecture. 
The farther we look back into those distant pe- 
riods, all the objects seem to become more obscure, 
or are totally lost, by a sort of perspective diminu- 
tion. In this case, therefore, when the eye of truth 
could no longer discern clearly, fancy undertook to 
form the picture; and fables were invented where 
truths were wanting. For this reason, we have 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



229 



declined enlarging on such disquisitions, not for 
want of materials, which offered themselves at 
every step of our progress, but because we thought 
them not worth discussing. Neither have we en- 
cumbered the beginning of our work with the va- 
rious opinions of the heathen philosophers con- 
cerning the creation, which may be found in most 
of our systems of theology, and belong more pro- 
perly to the divine than the historian. Sensible 
how liable we are to redundancy in this first part 
of our design, it has been our endeavour to unfold 
ancient history with all possible conciseness; and, 
solicitous to improve the reader's stock of know- 
ledge, we have been indifferent as to the display 
of our own. We have not stopped to discuss or 
confute all the absurd conjectures men of specula- 
tion have thrown in our way. We at first had even 
determined not to deform the page of truth with 
the names of those, whose labours had only been 
calculated to encumber it with fiction and vain 
speculation. However, we have thought proper, 
upon second thoughts, slightly to mention them 
and their opinions, quoting the author at the bot- 
tom of the page, so that the reader, who is curious 
about such particularities, may know where to have 
recourse for fuller information. 

As, in the early part of history, a want of real 
facts hath induced many to spin out the little that 
was known with conjecture, so in the modern part, 
the superfluity of trifling anecdotes was equally apt 
to introduce confusion. In one case, history has 
been rendered tedious, from our want of knowing 
the truth; in the other, from knowing too much of 
truth not worth our notice. Every year that is 
added to the age of the world, serves to lengthen 
the thread of its history; so that, to give this branch 
of learning a just length in the circle of human 
pursuits, it is necessary to abridge several of the 
least important facts. It is true, we often at pre- 
sent see the annals of a single reign, or even the 
transactions of a single year, occupying folios : but 
can the writers of such tedious journals ever hope 
to reach posterity, or do they think that our de- 
scendants, whose attention will naturally be turned 
to their own concerns, can exhaust so much time 
in the examination of ours 1 A plan of general his- 
tory, rendered too extensive, deters us from a study 
that is perhaps, of all others, the most useful, by 
rendering it too laborious ; and, instead of alluring 
our curiosity, excites our despair. Writers are un- 
pardonable who convert our amusement into la- 
bour, and divest knowledge of one of its most 
pleasing allurements. The ancients have repre- 
sented history under the figure of a woman, easy, 
graceful, and inviting : but we have seen her in our 
days converted, like the virgin of Nabis, into an 
instrument of torture. 

How far we have retrenched these excesses, and 
steered between the opposites of exuberance and 



abridgment, the judicious are left to determine. 
We here offer the public a History of mankind, 
from the earliest accounts of time to the present 
age, in twelve volumes, which, upon mature de- 
liberation, appeared to us the proper mean. It has 
been our endeavour to give every fact its full scope ; 
but, at the same time, to retrench all disgusting 
superfluity, to give every object the due proportion 
it ought to maintain in the general picture of man- 
kind, without crowding the canvass. We hope, 
therefore, that the reader will here see the revolu- 
tions of empires without confusion, and trace arts 
and laws from one kingdom to another, without 
losing his interest in the narrative of their other 
transactions. To attain these ends with greater 
certainty of success, we have taken care, in some 
measure, to banish that late, and we may add 
Gothic, practice, of using a multiplicity of notes ; 
a thing as much unknown to the ancient histo- 
rians, as it is disgusting in the moderns. Balzac 
somewhere calls vain erudition the baggage of an- 
tiquity4 might we in turn be permitted to make an 
apophthegm, we would call notes the baggage of a 
bad writer. It certainly argues a defect of method, 
or a want of perspicuity, when an author is thus 
obliged to write notes upon his own works ; and it 
may assuredly be said, that whoever undertakes to 
write a comment upon himself, will for ever remain 
without a rival his own commentator. We have, 
therefore, lopped off such excrescences, though not 
to any degree of affectation ; as sometimes an ac- 
knowledged blemish may be admitted into works 
of skill, either to cover a greater defect, or to take 
a nearer course to beauty. Having mentioned the 
danger of affectation, it may be proper to observe, 
that as this, of all defects, is most apt to insinupte 
itself into such a work, we have, therefore, been 
upon our guard against it. Innovation, in a per- 
formance of this nature, should by no means be at- 
tempted : those names and spellings which have 
been used in our language for time immemorialj 
ought to continue unaltered ; for, like states, they 
acquire a sort of jus diuturncE possessionis, as the 
civilians express it, however unjust their original 
claims might have been. 

With respect to chronology and geography, the 
one of which fixes actions to time, while the other 
assigns them to place, we have followed the most 
approved methods among the moderns. All that 
was requisite in this, was to preserve one system 
of each invariably, and permit such as chose to 
adopt the plans of others to rectify our deviations 
to their own standard. If actions and things are 
made to preserve their due distances of time and 
place mutually with respect to each other, it matters 
little as to the duration of them all with respect to 
eternity, or their situation with regard to the uni- 
verse. 

Thus much we have thought proper to premise 



230 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



concjerniiKT a work which, however executed, has supply a concise, plain, and unaffected narrative 
cost much labour and great expense. Had we for of the rise and decline of a well-known empire. I 
our iudcres the unbiassed and the judicious alone, was contented to make such a book as could not 
lew words would have served, or even silence fail of being serviceable, though of all others the 
would have been our best address ; but when it is most unlikely to promote the reputation of the 
considered we have laboured for the public, that writer. Instead, therefore, of pressing forward 
miscellaneous beinir, at variance within itself, from among the ambitious, I only claim the merit of 
the diflering influence of pride, prejudice, or inca- ; knowing my own strength, and falling back among 
nacity ; a public already sated with attempts of the hindmost ranks, with conscious inferiority. 
this nature, and in a manner unwilling to find out] I am not ignorant, however, that it would be no 
merit till fbrced upon its notice, we hope to be difficult task to pursue the same art by which 
pardoned for thus endeavouring to show where it 'many dull men, every day, acquire a reputation in 
is presumed wo have had a superiority. A His- history : such might easily be attained, by fixing 



toi-y of the AVorld to the present time, at once satis- 
Ikctory and succinct, calculated ratlier for use than 
curiositv, to be read rather than consulted, seeking 
applause from the reader's feelings, not from his 
ignorance of learning, or alTeetation of being 
thought learned, a history that may be purchased 
at an easy expense, yet that omits nothing mate- 



rial, delivered in a style correct, yet familiar, was | as I^thought strictly true, 
wanting in our language, and though, sensible of 
our own insufficiency, this defect we have attempted 
to supply. Whatever reception the present age or 
posterity may give this work, we rest satisfied with 
our own endeavours to deserve a kind one. The 
completion of our design has for some years taken 
up all the time we could spare from other occupa- 
tions, of less importance indeed to the public, but 
probably more advantageous t(j ourselves. We are 
unwilling, therefore, to dismiss this subject without 
observing, that the labour of so great a part of life 
should, at least, be examined with candour, and 
not carelessly confounded in that multiplicity of 
daily publications, which are conceived without 
effort, are produced without praise, and sink with- 
put censure. 



on some obscure period to write upon, where much 
seeming erudition might be displayed, almost un- 
known, because not worth remembering; and many 
maxims in politics might be advanced, entirely 
new, because altogether false. But 1 have pur- 
sued a contrary method, choosing the most noted 
period in history, and offering no remarks but such 



THE PREFACE 

TO THE 

ROMAN HISTORY. 

BY 1)R. GOLDSMITH. 

IVitsl printed in ihe year 1769.] 
Thrre are some subjects on which a writer 
must decline all attempts to acquire fame, satisfied 
witli bring obscurely useful After such a num- 
ber of Roman Histories, in almost all languages, 
ancient and modern, it would he but imposture to 
])retenJ new discoveries, or to expect to offer any 
tiling in a work of this kind, which has not been 
often anticipated by others. The facts which it 
relates have been a hundred times repeated, and 
every occurrence has been so variously considered, 
that learning can scarcely find a new anecdote, or 
genius give novelty to the old. I hope, therefore, 
for the reader's indulgence, if, in the following at- 



The reasons of my choice were, that we had no 
history of this splendid period in our language but 
what was either too voluminous for common use, 
or too meanly written to please. Catrou and 
Rouille's history, in six volumes folio, translated, 
into our language by Bundy, is entirely unsuited 
to the time and expense mankind usually choose- 
to bestow upon this subject. Rollin and his con- 
tinuator Crevier, making nearly thirty volumes oc-^ 
tavo, seem to labour under the same imputation ; 
as likewise Hooke, who has spent three quartos 
upon the Republic alone, the rest of his under- 
taking remaining unfinished.* There only, there- 
fore, remained the history by Echard, in five vo- 
lumes octavo, whose plan and mine seem to coin- 
cide; and, had his execution been equal to his de- 
sign, it had precluded the present undertaking. 
But the truth is, it is so poorly written, the facts so 
crowded, the narration so spiritless, and the charac- 
ters so indistinctly marked, that the most ardent 
curiosity must cool in the perusal; and the noblest 
transactions that ever warmed the human heart, 
as described by him, must cease to interest. 

I have endeavoured, therefore, in the present 
work, or rather compilation, to obviate the incon- 
veniences arising from the exuberance of the for- 
mer, as v/ell as from the unpleasantness of tha 
latter. It was supposed, that two volumes might 
be made to comprise all that was requisite to bo 
known, or pleasing to be read, by such as only ex- 
amined history to prepare them for more important 
studies. Too much time may be given even to 
laudable pursuits, and there is none more apt than 



' Mr. Hooka's three quartos above mentioned reach only 
to the end of the Gallic war. A fourth volume, to the end of 
the Republic, was afterwards published in 1771. Dr. Gold- 
smith's preface was written in 1769. Mr. Hooke's quarto 



tciiiDt it shall appear, that my only aim was to I edition lias been republished in eleven volumes octavo. 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



231 



this to allure the student from the necessary branch- 
ss of learning, and, if I may so express it, entirely 
to engross his industry. What is here ofl'ered, 
therefore, may be sufficient for all, except such 
who make history the peculiar business of their 
lives: to such, the most tedious narrative will seem 
'but an abridgmrnt, as they measure the merits of 
a work, rather by the quantity than the quality of 
its contents: others, however, vi'ho think more so 
bcrly, v.'ill agree, that in so extensive a field as that 
of the transactions of Rome, more judgment may 
be shown by selecting what is important than by 
adding what is obscure. 

The history of this empire has been extended to 
six volumes folio; and I aver, that, with very little 
learning, it might be increased to sixteen more; 
but what would this be, but to load the subject 
with unimportant facts, and so to weaken the nar- 
ration, that, like the empire described, it must 
necessarily sink beneath the weight of its own 
acquisitions. 

But while I thus endeavoured to avoid prolixity, 
it was found no easy matter to prevent crowding 
"the facts, and to give every narrative its proper 
play. In reality, no art can contrive to avoid op- 
posite defects; he who indulges in minute particu- 
larities will be often languid; and he who studies 
conciseness will as frequently be dry and unenter- 
taining. As it was my aim to comprise as tnuch 
as possible in the smallest compass, it is feared the 
work will often be subject to the latter imputation ; 
but it was impossible to furnish the public with a 
cheap Roman History in two volumes octavo, and 
at the same time to give all that warmth to the 
narrative, all those colourings to the description, 
which works of twenty times the bulk have room 
to exhibit. I shall be fully satisfied, therefore, if 
it furnishes an interest sufficient to allure the 
reader to the end; and this is a claim to which few 
abridgments can justly make pretensions. 

To these objections there are some who may 
add, that I have rejected many of the modern im- 
provements in Roman History, and that every 
character is left in full possession of that fame or 
infamy which it obtained from its contemporaries, 
or those who wrote immediately after. 

I acknowledge the charge, for it appears now too 
late to rojudge the virtues or the vices of those 
men, who were but very incompletely known even 
to their own historians. The Romans, perhaps, 
upon many occasions, formed wrong ideas of vir- 
tue; but they were by no means so ignorant or 
abandoned in general, as not to give to their bright- 
est characters the greatest share of their applause; 
and I do not know whether it be fair to try Pagan 
actions by the standard of Christian morality. 



employed human attention; and, instead of re- 
quiring a writer's aid, will even support him with 
his splendour. The Empire of the World, rising 
from the meanest origin, and growing great by a 
strict veneration for rehgion, and an implicit con- 
fidence in its commanders ; continually changing 
the mode, but seldom the spirit of its government; 
being a constitution, in which the military power, 
whether under the name of citizens or soldiers, al- 
most always prevailed ; adopting all the improve- 
ments of other nations with the most indefatigable 
industrv', and submitting to be taught by those 
whom it afterwards subdued — this is a picture 
that must affect us, however it be disposed ; these 
materials must have their value, under the hand 
of the meanest workman. 



THE PREFACE 



HISTORY OF ENGLAND 

BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 
[First printed in 177].] 

From the favourable reception givrn to my 
abridgment of Roman History, published some 
time since, several friends, and others whose busi- 
ncss leads them to consult the wants of the public, 
have been induced to suppose, that an English 
History, written on the same plan, would bo ac- 
ceptable. 

It was their opinion, that we still wanted a work 
of this kind, where the narrative, though very con- 
cise, is not totally without interest, and the flicts, 
though crowded, are yet distinctly seen. 

The business of abridging the works of others 
has hitherto fallen to the lot of very dull men ; and 
the art of blotting, which an eminent critic calls the 
most difiicult of all others, has been usually prac- 
tised by those who found themselves unable to 
write. Hence our abridgments are generally more 
tedious than the works from which they pretend to 
i-elieve us; and they have cfl^ectually embarrassed 
that road which they laboured to shorten. 

As the present compiler starts with such humble 
competitors, it will scarcely be thought vanity in 
him if he boasts himself their superior. Of the 
many abridgments of our own history, hitherto 
published, none seems possessed of any share of 
merit or reputation ; some have been written in 
dialogue, or merely in the stiffness of an index, and 
some to answer the purposes of a party. A very 
small share of taste, therefore, was sufficient to 
keep the compiler from the defects of the one, and 



a very small share of philosophy from the misrepre- 
But whatever may be my execution of this sentations of the other, 
work, I have very little doubt about the success of It is not easy, however, to satisfy the different 
the undertaking : the subject is the noblest that ever expectations of mankind in a work of this kindj 



232 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



calculated for every apprehension, and on which 
all are consequently capable of forming some judg- 
ment. Some may say that it is too long to pass 
under the denomination of an abridgment; and 
others, that it is too dry to be admitted as a history; 
it may be objected, that reflection is almost entirely 
banished to make room for facts, and yet, that 
many facts are wholly omitted, which might be 
necessary to be known. It must be confessed, that 
all those objections are partly true ; for it is impos- 
sible in the same work at once to attain contrary 
advantages. The compiler, who is stinted in room, 
must often sacrifice interest to brevity ; and on the 
other hand, while he endeavours to amuse, must 
frequently transgress the limits to which his plan 
should confine him. Thus, all such as desire only 
amusement may be disgusted with his brevity ; and 
such as seek for information may object to his dis- 
placing facts far empty description. 

To attain the greatest number of advantages 
with the fewest inconveniences, is all that can be 
attained in an abridgment, the name of which im- 
plies imperfection. It will be sufficient, therefore, 
to satisfy the writer's wishes, if the present work 
be found a plain, unaffected narrative of facts, with 
just ornament enough to keep attention awake, 
and with reflection barely sufficient to set the read- 
er upon thinking. Very moderate abiUties were 
equal to such an undertaking, and it is hoped the 
performance will satisfy such as take up books to 
be informed or amused, without much considering 
who the writer is, or envying any success he may 
have had in a former compilation. 

As the present publication is designed for the 
benefit of those who intend to lay a foundation for 
future study, or desire to refresh their memories 
upon the old, or who think a moderate share of his- 
tory sufficient for the purposes of hfe, recourse has 
been had only to those authors which are best 
known, and those facts only have been selected 
which are allowed on all hands to be true. Were 
an epitome of history the field for displaying erudi- 
tion, the author could show that he has read many 
books which others have neglected, and that he also 
could advance many anecdotes which are at present 
very little known. But it must be remembered, 
that all these minute recoveries could be inserted 
only to the exclusion of more material facts, which 
it would he unpardonable to omit. He foregoes, 
therefore, the petty ambition of being thought a read- 
er of forgotten books; his aim being not to add to 
our present stock of history, but to contract it. 

The books which have been used in this abridg- 
ment are chiefly Rapin, Carte, Smollett, and 
Hume. They have each their peculiar admirers, 
m proportion as the reader is studious of historical 
antiquities, fond of minute anecdote, a warm par- 
tisan or a deliberate reasoner. Of these I have 
particularly taken Hume for my guide, as far as he 



goes ; and it is but justice to say, that wherever I 
was obliged to abridge his work, I did it with re- 
luctance, as I scarcely cut out a single line that did 
not contain a beauty. 

But though I must warmly subscribe to the learn- 
ing, elegance, and depth of Mr. Hume's history, 
yet I can not entirely acquiesce in his principles. 
With regard to rehgion, he seems desirous of play- 
ing a double part, of appearing to some readers as 
if he reverenced, and to others as if he ridiculed it. 
He seems sensible of the political necessity of religion 
in every state ; but at the same time, he would every 
where insinuate that it owes its authority to no 
higher an origin. Thus he weakens its influence, 
while he contends for its utility ; and vainly hopes, 
that while free-thinkers shall applaud his scepti- 
cism, real believers will reverence him for his zeal. 

In his opinions respecting government, perhaps 
also he may sometimes be reprehensible ; but in a 
country like ours, where mutual contention con- 
tributes to the security of the constitution, it will 
be impossible for an historian who attempts to 
have any opinion to satisfy all parties. It is not 
yet decided in politics, whether the diminution of 
kingly power in England tends to increase the 
happiness or the freedom of the people. For my 
own part, from seeing the bad effects of the tyran- 
ny of the great in those republican states that pre- 
tend to be free, I can not help wishing that our 
monarchs may still be allowed to enjoy the power 
of controlling the encroachments of the great at 
home. 

A king may easily be restrained from doing 
wrong, as he is but one man; but if a number of 
the great are permitted to divide all authority, who 
can punish them if they abuse it? Upon this princi- 
ple, therefore, and not from empty notions of divine 
or hereditary right, some may think I have leaned 
towards monarchy. But as, in the things 1 have 
hitherto written, 1 have neither allured the vanity 
of the great by flattery, nor satisfied the malignity 
of the vulgar by scandal, as I have endeavoured to 
get an honest reputation by liberal pursuits, it ii 
hoped the reader will admit my impartiality. 



THE PREFACE 

TO A 

HISTORY OF THE EARTH 

AND 

ANIMATED NATURE. 
BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 

[First printed in the yeai- 1774.] 

Natural History, considered in its utmost ex- 
tent, comprehends two objects. First, that of dis- 
covering, ascertaining, and naming all the various 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



S33 



productions of nature. Secondly, that of describ- 
ing the properties, manners, and relations, which 
they bear to us, and to each other. The first, 
which is the most difficult part of the science, is 
systematical, dry, mechanical, and incomplete. The 
second is more amusing, exhibits new pictures to 
the imagination, and improves our relish for exist- 
ence, by widening the prospect of nature around 
us. 

Both, however, are necessary to those who would 
understand this pleasing science in its utmost ex- 
tent. The first care of every inquirer, no doubt, 
should be, to see, to visit, and examine every ob- 
ject, before he pretends to inspect its habitudes or 
its history. From seeing and observing the thing 
itself, he is most naturally led to speculate upon 
its uses, its delights, or its inconveniences. 

Numberless obstructions, however, are found in 
this part of his pursuit, that frustrate his diligence 
and retard his curiosity. The objects in nature 
are so many, and even those of the same kind are 
exhibited in such a variety of forms, that the in- 
quirer finds himself lost in the exuberance before 
him, and, like a man who attempts to count the 
Btars unassisted by art, his powers are all distracted 
in barren superfluity. 

To remedy this embarrassment, artificial systems 
have been devised, which, grouping into masses 
those parts of nature more nearly resembling each 
other, refer the inquirer for the name of the single 
object he desires to know, to some one of those 
general distributions where it is to be found by fur- 
ther examination. If, for instance, a man should 
in his walks meet with an animal, the name, and 
consequently the history of which he desires to 
know, he is taught by systematic writers of natural 
history to examine its most obvious qualities, wheth- 
er a quadruped, a bird, a fish, or an insect. Having 
determined it, for explanation sake, to be an insect, 
he examines whether it has wings; if he finds it 
possessed of these, he is taught to examine whether 
it has two or four; if possessed of four, he is taught 
to observe, whether the two upper wings are of a 
shelly hardness, and serve as cases to those under 
them ; if he finds the wings composed in this man- 
ner, he is then taught to pronounce, that tMs in- 
sect is one of the beetle kind : of the beetle kind 
there are three different classes, distinguished from 
each other by their feelers; he examines the insect 
before him, and finds that the feelers are elevated 
01 knobbed at the ends ; of beetles, with feelers 
thus formed, there are ten kinds, and among those, 
he is taught to look for the precise name of that 
which is before him. If, for instance, the knob be 
divided at the ends, and the belly be streaked with 
white, it is no other than the Dor or the May-bug, 
an animal, the noxious qualities of which give it a 
very distinguished rank in the history of the insect 
creation. In this manner, a system of natural 



history may, in some measure, be compared to a 
dictionary of words. Both are solely intended to 
explain the names of things; but with this differ- 
ence, that in the dictionary of words, we are led 
from the name of the thing to its definition, where- 
as, in the system of natural history, we are led 
from the definition to find out the name. 

Such are the efforts of writers, who have com- 
posed their works with great labour and ingenuity, 
to direct the learner in his progress through na- 
ture, and to inform him of the name of every ani- 
mal, plant, or fossil substance, that he happens to 
meet with; but it would be only deceiving the 
reader to conceal the truth, which is, that books 
alone can never teach him this art in perfection ; 
and the solitary student can never succeed. With- 
out a master, and a previous knowledge of many 
of the objects in nature, his book will only serve to 
confound and disgust him. Few of the individual 
plants or animals that he may happen to meet 
with are in that precise state of health, or that ex- 
act period of vegetation, whence their descriptions 
were taken. Perhaps he meets the plant only 
with leaves, but the systematic writer has described 
it in flower. Perhaps he meets the bird before it 
has moulted its first feathers, while the systematic 
description was made in the state of full perfection. 
He thus ranges without an instructor, confused 
and with sickening curiosity, from subject to sub- 
ject, till at last he gives up the pursuit in the mul- 
tiplicity of his disappointments. Some practice, 
therefore, much instruction, and diligent reading, 
are requisite to make a ready and expert natural- 
ist, who shall be able, even by the htlp of a sys- 
tem, to find out the name of every object he meets 
with. But when this tedious, though requisite 
part of study is attained, nothing but delight and 
variety attend the rest of his journey. Wherever 
he travels, like a man in a country where he has 
many friends, he meets with nothing but acquaint- 
ances and allurements in all the stages of his way. 
The mere uninformed spectator passes on in gloomy 
solitude, but the naturalist, in every plant, in every 
insect, and every pebble, finds something to enter- 
tain his curiosity, and excite his speculation. 

Hence it appears, that a system may be con- 
sidered as a dictionary in the study of nature. The 
ancients, however, who have all written most de- 
lightfully on this subject, seem entirely to have re- 
jected those humble and mechanical helps of sci- 
ence. They contented themselves with seizing 
upon the great outlines of history; and passing over 
what was common, as not worth the dtiail, they 
only dwelt upon what was new, great, and sur- 
prising, and sometimes even warmed the imeigina- 
tion at the expense of truth. Such of the moderns 
as revived this science in Europe, undertook the 
task more methodically, though not in a manner 
so pleasing. Aldrovandus, Gesner, and Jonston, 



234 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



seemed desirous of uniting the entertaining and 
rich deucriptions of the ancients with the dry and 
systematic arrangement of which they were the 
first projectors. This attempt, however, was ex- 
tremely imperfect, as the great variety of nature 
was, as y€t, but very inadequately known. Never- 
theless, by attempting to carry on both objects at 
once ; iirst, of directing us to the name of the thing, 
and then giving the detail of its history, they drew 
out their works into a tedious and unreasonable 
length; and thus mixing incompatible aims, they 
have left their labours rather to be occasionally 
consulted, than read with delight by posterity. 

The later moderns, with that good sense which 
they have carried into every other part of science, 
have taken a different method in cultivating na- 
tural history. They have been content to give, 
not only the brevity, but also the dry and disgusting 
air of a dictionary to their systems. Ray, Klein, 
Brisson, and Linnaeus, have had only one aim, 
that of pointing out the object in nature, of discov- 
ering its name, and where it was to be found in 
those authors that treated of it in a more prolix and 
satisfactory manner. Thus, natural history, at 
present, is carried on in two distinct and separate 
channels, the one serving to lead us to the thing, 
the other conveying the history of the thing, as 
supposing it already known. 

The following natural history is written with 
only such an attention to syslem as serves to re- 
move the reader's embarrassments, and allure him 
to proceed. It can make no pretensions in direct- 
ing him to the name of every object he meets with ; 
that belongs to works of a very different kind, and 
written with very different aims. It will fully 
answer my design, if the reader, being already 
possessed of the name of any animal, shall find 
here a short, though satisfactory history of its habi- 
tudes, its subsistence, its manners, its friendships, 
and hostilities. My aim has been to carry on just 
as much method as was sufficient to shorten my 
descriptions by generalizing them, and never to 
follow order where the art of writing, which is but 
another name for good sense, informed me that it 
would only contribute to the reader's embarrass- 
ment. 

Still, however, the reader will perceive, that I 
have formed a kind of system in the history of 



late spent much time, great pains, and some leafn ■ 
ing, all to very little purpose, in systematic arrange- 
ment, he seems so much disgusted by their trifling, 
but ostentatious efforts, that he describes his ani- 
mals almost in the order they happen to come be- 
fore him. 

This want of method seems to be a fault, but he 
can lose little by a criticism which every dull man 
can make, or by an error in arrangement, from 
which the dullest are the most usually free. 

In other respects, as far as this able philosopher 
has gone, I have taken him for my guide. The 
warmth of his style, and the brilliancy of his imagi- 
nation, are inimitable. Leaving him, therefore, 
without a rival in these, and only availing myself 
of his information, I have been content to describe 
things in my own way, and though many of the 
materials are taken from him, yet 1 have added, re- 
trenched, and altered, as I thought proper. It was 
my intention, at one time, whenever I differed 
from him, to have mentioned it at the bottom of 
the page; but this occurred so often, that I soon 
four.d it would look like envy, and might, perhaps, 
convict me of those very errors which I was want- 
ing to lay upon him. 

I have, therefore, as being every way his debtor, 
concealed my dissent, where my opinion was differ- 
ent ; hut wherever I borrow from him, I take care 
at the bottom of the page to express my obliga- 
tions. But, though my obligations to this writer 
are many, they extend but to the smallest part of 
the work, as he has hitherto completed only the 
history of quadrupeds. I was, therefore, left to 
my reading alone, to make out the history of birds, 
fishes, and insects, of which the arrangement was 
so difficult, and the necessary information so wide- 
ly diffused, and so obscurely related when found, 
that it proved by much the most laborious part of 
the undertaking. Thus, having made use of M. 
Buffon's lights in the first part of this work, I may, 
with some share of confidence, recommend it to the 
public. But what shall I say of that part, where 
I have been entirely left without his assistance 1 
As I would allect neither modesty nor confidence, 
it will be sufficient to say, that my reading upon 
this part of the subject has been very extensive; 
and that I have taxed my scanty circumstances in 
procuring books, which are on this subject, of all 



every part of animated nature, directing myself by others, the most expensive. In consequence of 
the great and obvious distinctions that she herself j this industry, I here offer a work to the pubhc, of 
seems to have made, which, though too few to a kind which has never been attempted in ours, or 
point exactly to the name, are yet sufficient to il-| any other modern language that I know of. The 
luminate the subject, and remove the reader's per- 



plexity. M. Buffon, indeed, who has brought 
greater talents to this part of learning than any 
other man, has almost entirely rejected method in 
classing quadrupeds. This, with great deference 
to such a character, appears to me running into the 
opposite extreme; and, as some modems have of 



ancients, indeed, and Pliny in particular, have an- 
ticipated me in the present manner of treating na- 
tural history. Like those historians who described 
the events of a campaign, they have not conde- 
scended to give the private particulars of every in- 
dividual that formed the army ; they were content 
with characterising the generals, and describing 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



S35 



their operations, while they left it to meaner hands 
to carry the muster-roll. I have followed their 
manner, rejecting the numerous fables which they 
adopted, and adding the improvements of the mod- 
erns, which are so numerous, that they actuall}' 
make up the bulk of natural history. 

The delight which I found in reading Pliny, 
first inspired me with the idea of a work of this 
nature. Having a taste rather classical than sci- 
entidc, and having but little employed myself in 
turning over the dry labours of modern system- 
makers, my earliest intention was to translate this 
agreeable writer and, by the help of a commentaiy, 
to make my work as amusing as 1 could. Let us 
dignify natural history ever so much with the 
grave appellation of a useful science, yet still we 
must confess, that it is the occupation of the idle 
and the speculative, more than of the ambitious 
part of mankind. My intention was to treat what 
I then conceived to be an idle subject, in an idle 
manner; and not to hedge round plain and simple! 
narrative with hard words, accumulated distinc i 
tions, rstentalious learning, and disquisitions that ' 
produced no conviction. Upon the appearance, ' 
however, of M. Buffon's work, I dropped my 
former plan and adopted the present, being con- ' 
vinced by his manner, that the best imitation of I 
the ancients was to write from our own feelings, 
and to imitate nature. 

It will be my chief [)ride, therefore, if this work 
may he found an innocent amusement for those 
who have nothing else to employ them, or who re- 
quire a relaxation from labour. Professed natu- 
ralists will, no doubt, find it superficial ; and yet 1 
should hope, that even these will discover hints 
and remarks, gleaned from various reading, not 
wholly trite or elementary ; I would wish for tlieir 
approbation. But my chief ambition is to drag up 
the obscure and gloomy learning of the cell to 
open inspection ; to strip it from its garb of aus- 
terity, and to show the beauties of that form, which 
only the industrious and the inquisitive have been 
hitherto permitted to approach. 



PREFACE 

TO THE 

BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETRY. 

[First printed in the year 1767.] 

My bookseller having informed me that there 
was no collection of English Poetry among us, of 
any estimation, I thought a few hours spent in 
making a proper selection would not be ill be- 
stowed. 

Compilations of this kind are chiefly designed 
for such as either want leisure, skill, or fortune, to 



choose for themselves ; for persons whose profes- 
sions turn them to different pursuit."!, or who, not 
yet arrived at sufiicient maturity, require a guide 
to direct their application. To our youth, particu- 
larly, a publication of this sort may be useful; 
since, if compiled with any share of judgment, it 
may at once unite precept and example, show them 
what is beautiful, and inform them why it is so; 
I therefore offer this, to the best of my judgment, 
as the best collection that has as yet appeared; 
though, as tastes are various, numbers will be of a 
very different opinion. Many, perhaps, may wish 
to see it in the poems of their favourite authors, 
others may wish that I had selected from works less 
generally read, and others still may wish that I had 
selected from their own. But my design was to 
give a useful, unaffected compilation; one that 
might tend to advance the reader's taste, and not 
impress him with exalted ideas of mine. Nothing 
is so common, and yet so absurd, as affectation in 
criticism. The desire of being thought to have a 
more discerning taste than others, has often led 
writers to labour after error, and to be foremost in 
promoting deformity. 

In this compilation, I run but few risks of that 
kind ; every poem here is well known, and possessed, 
or the public has been long mistaken, of peculiar 
merit ; every jioem has, as Aristotle expresses it, a 
beginning, a middle, and an end, in which, how- 
ever trifling the rule may seem, most of the poetry 
in our language is deficient. I claim no merit in 
the choice, as it was obvious, for in all languages 
best productions are most easily found. As to the 
short introductory criticisms to each poem, they 
are rather designed for boys than men ; for it will 
be seen that I declmed all refinement, satisfied 
with being obvious and sincere. In short, if this 
work be useful in schools, or amusing in the closet, 
the merit all belongs to others ; I have nothing to 
boast, and at best can expect, not applause but 
pardon. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 

This seems to be Mr. Pope's most finished pro- 
duction, and is, perhaps, the most perfect in oui 
language. It exhibits stronger powers of imagi- 
nation, more harmony of numbers, and a greater 
knowledge of the world than any other of this 
poet's works ; and it is probable, if our country 
were called upon to show a specimen of their 
genius to foreigners, this would be the work fixed 
upon. 

IL PENSEROSO. 

I have heard a very judicious critic say, that he 
had a higher idea of Milton's stvie in poetry, from 



236 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the two following poems, than from his Paradise 
Lost. It is certain, the imagination shown in 
them is correct and strong. The introduction to 
both in irregular measure is borrowed from the 
Italians, and hurts an English ear. 

AN ELEGY, 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHORCH-YARD. 

This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with 
epithet. The heroic measure, with alternate 
rhyme, is very properly adapted to the solemnity of 
the subject, as it is the slowest movement that our 
language admits of. The latter part of the poem 
is pathetic and interesting. 

LONDON, 

IN IMITATION OP THE THIRD SATIRE OP J0VENAL. 

This poem of Mr. Johnson's is the best imita- 
tion of the original that has appeared in our lan- 
guage, being possessed of all the force and satirical 
resentment of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a much 
truer idea of the ancients than even translation 
could do. 

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS, 

IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. 

This poem is one of those happinesses in which 
a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all 
Shenstone which any way approaches it in merit ; 
and, though I dislike the imitations of our old 
English poets in general, yet, on this minute sul)- 
ject, the antiquity of the style produces a very 
ludicrous solemnity. 

COOPER'S HILL. 

This poem by Denham, though it may have 
been exceeded by later attempts in description, yet 
deserves the highest applause, as it far surpasses 
all that went before it ; the concluding part, 
though a little too much crowded, is very masterly. 

ELOISA TO ABELARD. 

The harmony of numbers in this poem is very 
fine. It is rather drawn out to too tedious a 
length, although the passions vary with great 
judgment. It may be considered as superior to 
any thing in the epistolary way ; and the many 
translations which have been made of it into the 
modern languages, are in some measure a proof of 
this. 

AN EPISTLE FROM MR. PHILIPS 

TO THE 

EARL OF DORSET. 

The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. 
The latter part is tedious and trifling. 



A LETTER FROM ITALY 

TO THE 

RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES 
LORD HALIFAX, 1701. 

Few poems have done more honour to English 
genius than this. There is in it a strain of politi- 
cal thinking that was, at that time, new in our 
poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to 
that of Pope's versification, it would be incontesta- 
bly the finest poem in our language ; but there is 
a dryness in the numbers, which greatly lessens 
the pleasure excited both by the poet's judgment 
and imagination. 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; or, THE 
POWER OF MUSIC. 

AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 

This ode has been more applauded, perhaps, 
than it has been felt; however, it is a very fine one, 
and gives its beauties rather at a third or fourth, 
than at a first perusal. 

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S 
DAY. 

This ode has by many been thought equal to 
the former. As it is a repetition of Dryden's man- 
ner, it is so far inferior to him. The whole hint 
of Orpheus, with many of the hnes, has been 
taken from an obscure Ode upon Music, published 
in Tate's Miscellanies. 

THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK, 

IN SIX PASTORALS. 

These are Mr. Gay's principal performance. 
They were originally intended, I suppose, as a 
burlesque on those of Phillips ; but perhaps, with- 
out designing it, he has hit the true spirit of pasto- 
ral poetry. In fact he more resembles Theocritus 
than any other English pastoral writer whatsoever. 
There runs through the whole a strain of rustic 
pleasantry, which should ever distinguish this spe- 
cies of composition ; but how far the antiquated 
expressions used here may contribute to the hu- 
mour, I will not determine ; for my own part, I 
could wish the simplicity were preserved, without 
recurring to such obsolete antiquity for the manner 
of expressing it. 

MAC FLECKNOE. 

The severity of this satire, and the excellence of 
its versification, give it a distinguished rank in this 
species of composition. At present, an ordinary 
reader would scarcely suppose that Shadwell, who 
is here meant by Mac Flecknoe, was worth being 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM, 



237 



chastised; and that Dryden, descending to such 
game, was Uke an eagle stooping to catch flies. 

The truth however is, Shadwell at one time held 
divided reputation with this great poet. Every age 
produces its fashionable dunces, who, by following 
the transient topic or humour of the day, supply 
talkative ignorance with materials for conversation. 

ON POETRY.— A Rhapsody. 

Here follows one of the best versified poems in 
our language, and the most masterly production of 
its author. The severity with which Walpole is 
here treated, was in consequence of that minister's 
having refused to provide for Swift in England, 
when applied to for that purpose, in the year 1725 
(If I rsmember right). The severity of a poet, 
however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A 
man whose schemes, like this minister's, seldom 
extended beyond the exigency of the year, but little 
regarded the contempt of posterity. 

OF THE USE OF RICHES. 

This poem, as Mr. Pope tells us himself, cost 
much attention and labour; and from the easiness 
that appears in it, one would be apt to think as 
much. 

FROM THE DISPENSARY.— Canto VI. 

This sixth canto of the Dispensary, by Dr. 
Garth, has more merit than the whole preceding 
part of the poem, and, as I am told, in the first edi- 
tion of this work, it is more correct than as here 
exhibited ; but that edition I have not been able to 
find. The praises bestowed on this poem are more 
than have been given to any other ; but our appro- 
bation at present is cooler, for it owed part of its 
fame to party. 

SELIMj OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. 

The following eclogues, written by Mr. Collins, 
are very pretty; the images, it must be owned, are 
not very local ; for the pastoral subject could not 
well admit of it. The description of Asiatic mag- 
nificence and manners is a subject as yet unat- 
tempted among us, and, I believe, capable of fur- 
nishing a great variety of poetical imagery. 

THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 

This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in 
our language : it has been a hundred times iimi- 
tated without success. T he truth is, the first thing 
in this way must preclude all future attempts ; for 
nothing is so easy as to burlesque any man's man- 
ner, when we are once showed the way. 

A PIPE OF TOBACCO. 

IN IMITATION OP SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS. 

Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, as I 



am told, had no good original manner of his own, 
yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an 
imitator; for the following are rather imitations 
than ridiculous parodies. 

A NIGHT PIECE ON DEATH. 

The great fault of this piece, written by Dr. 
Parnell, is, that it is in eight syllable fines, very 
improper for the solemnity of the subject , other- 
wise, the poem is natural, and the reflections just. 

A FAIRY TALE. By Dr. Parnell, 

Never was the old manner of speaking more hap- 
pily applied, or a tale better told, than this. 

PALEMON AND LAVINIA. 

Mr. Thomson, though in general a verbose and 
affected poet, has told this story with unusual sim- 
plicity : it is rather given here for being much es- 
teemed by the public than by the editor. 

THE BASTARD. 

Almost all things written from the heart, as this 
certainly was, have some merit. The poet here 
describes sorrows and misfortunes which were by 
no means imaginary; and thus there runs a truth 
of thinking through this poem, without which it 
would be of little value, as Savage is, in other re- 
spects, but an indifferent poet. 

THE POET AND HIS PATRON. 

Mr. Moore was a poet that never had justice 
done him while living ; there are few of the mo- 
derns have a more correct taste, or a more pleasing 
manner of expressing their thoughts. It was upon 
these fables he chiefly founded his reputation, yet 
they are by no means his best production. 

AN EPISTLE TO A LADY. 

This httle poem, by Mr. Nugent, is very pleas- 
ing. The easiness of the poetry, and the justice 
of the thoughts, constitste its principal beauty. 

HANS CARVEL. 

This bagatelle, for which, by the by, Mr. Prior 
has got his greatest reputation, was a tale told in all 
the old Italian collections of jests, and borrowed from 
thence by Fontaine. It had been translated once 
or twice before into English, yet was never re- 
garded till it fell into the hands of Mr. Prior. A 
strong instance how much every thing is improved 
in the hands of a man of genius. 

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 

This poem is very fine, and, though in the same 
strain with the preceding, is yet superior. 



2B3 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, 

ON THE DEATH OP MR. ADDISON. 

This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the finest 
in our language : thei-e is so little new that can be 
said upon the death of a friend, after the complaints 
of Ovid and the Latin Italians in this way, that 
one is surprised to see so much novelty in this to 
strike us, and so much interest to affect. 

COLIN AND LUCY.— A Ballad. 

Through all Tickell's Works there is a strain 
of ballad-thinking, if I may so express it; and in 
'this professed ballad he seems to have surpassed 
himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language 
in this way. 

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 

This ode, by Dr. Smollett, does rather more 
lionour to the author's feelings than his taste. The 
mechanical part, with regard to numbers and lan- 
guage, is not so perfect as «o short a work as this 
requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly 
in the last stanza but one, is exquisitely fine. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PRO- 
TECTOR, 

Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Wal- 
ler's time; so that this, which would be now look- 
ed upon as a slovenly sort of versification, was, 
with respect to the times in which it was written, 
almost a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader 
will chiefly be struck with the strength of thir.k- 
ing, and the turn of the compliments bestowed up- 
4m the usurper. Every body has heard the answer 
our poet made Charles II. who asked him how his 
poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his 
panegyric upon himself! "Your Majesty," re- 
plies Waller, "knows that poets always succeed 
best in fiction. ■ ' 

THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND 
DAPHNE, APPLIED. 

The French claim this as belonging to them. 
To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely 
turned. 

NIGHT THOUGHTS. By Dr. Young. 

These seem to be the best of the collection ; from 
whence only the first two are taken. They are 
spoken of differently, either with exaggerated ap- 
plause or contempt, as the reader's disposition is 
either turned to mirth or melancholy. 

SATIRE I. 

Young's Satires were in higher reputation when 
published than they stand in at present. He seems 



fonder of dazzling than pleasing ; of raising our ad- 
miration for his wit than our dishke of the follies 
he ridicules. 

A PASTORAL BALLAD. 

The ballads of Mr. Shenstone are chiefly com^ 
mended for the natural simplicity of the thoughts; 
and the harmony of the versification. However,, 
they are not excellent in either. 

PHCEBE.— A Pastoral 

This, by Dr. Byron, is a better effort than the 
preceding. 

A SONG, 

"Despairing beside a clear stream. " 
This, by Mr. Rowo, is better than, any thing of 
the kind in our language. 

AN ESSAY ON POETRY. 

This work, by the Duke of Buckingham, is en- 
rolled among our great English productions. The 
precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent,, 
but it has been praised more than it deserves. 

CADENAS AND VANESSA. 

This is thought one of Dr. Swift's correctest 
pieces ; its chief merit, indeed, is the elegant ease 
with which a story, but ill conceived in itself, is' 
told. 

ALMA; OK, THE PROGRESS OP THE. 

MIND. 

Huvtu yiKcc;, k-jli ■Tra.'iT'J. kuvk, x.ut 'TT'J.vth to fAnS'tr 
ncLVTU. y^fi i^ cixoyuv io-Ti TO. yiyvoy.ivu. 
What Prior meant by this poem I can't under- 
stand : by the Greek motto tt> it, one would think it 
was either to laugh at the subject or his reader- 
There are some parts of it very tine; and let them, 
save the badness of the rest. 



PREFACE 



A COLLECTION OF POEMS, 

FOR YOUNG LADIES, 
DEVOTIONAL, MORAL, AND ENTERTAINING. 

[First Printed in the yeai- 1767.] 

Dr. Fordyce's excellent Sermons for Young 
Women in some measure gave rise to the follow- 
ing compilation. In that work, where he so judi- 
ciously points out all the defects of female conduct 
to remedy them, and all the proper studies which 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



239 



they should pursue, with a view to improvement, 
poetry is one to which he particularly would at- 
tach them. He only objects to the danger of pur- 
suing this charming study through all the immo- 
ralities and false pictures of happiness with which 
it abounds, and thus becoming the martyr of inno- 
cent curiosity. 

In the following compilation, care has been taken 
to select not only such pieces as innocence may 
read without a blush, but such as will even tend 
to strengthen that innocence. In this little work, 
a lady may find the most exquisite pleasure, while 
she is at the same time learning the duties of life; 
and, while she courts only entertainment, be de- 
ceived into wisdom. Indeed, this would be too 
great a boast in the preface to any original work ; 
but here it can be made with safety, as every poem 
in the following collection would singly have pro- 
cured an author great reputation. 

They are divided into Devotional, Moral, and 
Entertaining, thus comprehending the three great 
duties of life ; that which we owe to God, to our 
neighbour, and to ourselves. 

In the first part, it must be confessed, our Eng- 
lish poets have not very much excelled. In that 
department, namely, the praise of our Maker, by 
which poetry began, and from which it deviated 
by time, we are most faultily deficient. There are 
one or two, however, particularly the Deity, by 
Mr. Boyse; a poem, when it first came out, that 
lay for some time neglected, till introduced to pub- 
lic notice by Mr. Hervey and Mr. Fielding. In 
it the reader will perceive many striking pictures, 
and perhaps glow with a part of that gratitude 
which seems to have inspired the writer. 

In the moral part I am more copious, from the 
same reason, because our language contains a large 
number of the kind. Voltaire, talking of our poets, 
gives them the preference in moral pieces to those 
of any other nation ; and indeed no poets have bet- 
ter settled the bounds of duty, or more precisely 
determined the rules for conduct in life than ours. 
In this department, the fair reader will find the 
Muse has been solicitous to guide her, not with 
the allurements of a syren, but the integrity of a 
friend. 

In the entertaining part, my greatest difficulty 
was what to reject. The materials lay in such 
plenty, that I was bewildered in my choice: in this 
case, then, I was solely determined by the tenden- 
cy of the poem : and where I found one, however 
well executed, that seemed in the least tending to 
distort the judgment, or inflame the imagination, 
it was excluded without mercy. I have here and 
there, indeed, when one of particular beauty offer- 
ed with a few blemishes, lopped off the defects; 
and thus, like the tyrant who fitted all strangers to 
the bed he had prepared for them, 1 have inserted 
some, by first adapting them to my plan : we only 



differ in this, that he mutilated with a bad design, 
I from motives of a contrary nature. 

It will be easier to condemn a compilation of this 
kind, than to prove its inutility. While young la- 
dies are readers, and while their guardians are so- 
licitous that they shall only read the best books, 
there can be no danger of a work of this kind be- 
ing disagreeable. It offers, in a very small com- 
pass, the very flowers of our poetry, and that of a 
kind adapted to the sex supposed to be its readers. 
Poetry is an art which no young lady can or ought 
to be wholly ignorant of The pleasure which it 
gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough 
of it to mix in modern conversation, will evince the 
usefulness of my design, which is to supply the 
highest and the most innocent entertainment at the 
smallest expense ; as the poems in this collection, 
if sold singly, would amount to ten times the price 
of what I am able to afford the present. 



CRITICISM ON 

MASSEY'S TRANSLATION 

OF THE 

FASTI OF OVID. 

[Published in the year 1757.] 

It was no bad remark of a celebrated French 
lady,* that a bad translator was like an ignorant 
footman, whose blundering messages disgraced his 
master by the awkwardness of the delivery, and 
frequently turned comphment into abuse, and 
politeness into rusticity. We can not indeed see 
an ancient elegant writer mangled and misrepre- 
sented by the doers into English, without some 
degree of indignation; and are heartily sorry that 
our poor friend Ovid should send his sacred kalen- 
dar to us by the hands of Mr. William Massey, 
who, like the valet, seems to have entirely forgot 
his master's message, and substituted another in 
its room very unlike it. Mr. Massey observes in 
his preface, with great truth, that it is strange that 
this most elaborate and learned of all Ovid's works 
should be so much neglected by our English transla- 
tors; and that it should be so little read or regarded, 
whilst his Tristia, Epistles, and Metamorphoses, are 
in almost every schoolboy's hands. "All the critics, 
in general," says he, "speak of this part of Ovid's 
writings with a particular applause ; yet I know 
not by what unhappy fate there has not been that 
use made thereof, which would be more beneficial, 
in many respects, to young students of the Latin 
tongue, than any other of this poet's works. For 
though Pantheons, and other books that treat of 



' Madame La Fayette. 



240 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the Roman mythology, may be usefully put into 
the hands of young proficients in the Latin tongue, 
yet the richest fund of that sort of learning is here 
to be found in the Fasti. I am not without hopes, 
therefore, that by thus making this book more fa- 
miliar and easy, in this dress, to English readers, 
it will the more readily gain admittance into our 
public schools; and that those who become better 
acquainted therewith, will find it an agreeable and 
instructive companion, well stored with recondite 
learning. I persuade myself also, that the notes 
which I have added to my version will be of ad- 
vantage, not only to the mere English reader, but 
likewise to such as endeavour to improve them- 
selves in the knowledge of the Roman language. 

"As the Latin proverb says, Jacta est alea; 
and my performance must take its chance, as those 
of other poetic adventurers have done before me. 
I am very sensible, that I have fallen in many 
places far below my original; and no wonder, as I 
had to copy after so fertile and pohte a genius as 
Ovid's; who, as my Lord Orrery, somewhere in 
Dean Swift's Life, humorously observes, could 
make an instructive song out of an old almanack. 

" That my translation is more diffuse, and not 
brought within the same number of verses contain- 
ed in my original, is owing to two reasons ; firstly, 
because of the concise and expensive nature of the 
Latin tongue, which it is very difficult (at least I 
find it so) to keep to strictly, in our language; and 
secondly, I took the liberty, sometimes to expatiate 
a little upon my subject, rather than leave it in 
obscurity, or unintelligible to my English readers, 
being indifferent whether they may call it transla- 
tion or paraphrase; for, in short, I had this one 
design most particularly in view, that these Roman 
Fasti might have a way opened for their entrance 
into our grammar-schools." 

What use this translation may be of to gram- 
mar-schools, we can not pretend to guess, unless, 
by way of foil, to give the boys a higher opinion of 
the beauty of the original by the deformity of so 
bad a copy. But let our readers judge of Mr. 
Massey's performance by the following specimen. 
For the better determination of its merit, we shall 
subjoin the original of every quotation. 

" The calends of each month throughout the year, 

Are vmder Juno's kind peculiar care; 

But on the ides, a white lamb from the field, 

A grateful sacrifice, to Jove is kill'd; 

But o'er the nones no guardian god presides; 

And the next day to calends, nones, and ides, 

Is inauspicious deem'd; for on those days 

The Romans suffered losses many ways; 

And from those dire events, in hapless war, 

Those days unlucky nominated are." 

Vindicat Ausoniaa Junonis cura kalendas: 
Idibus alba Jovi grandior agna cadiu 



Nonarum tutela Deo cai-et. Oimiibus istis 

(Ne fallere cave) proximus Ater erit. 
Omen ab eventu est : illis nam Roma diebua 

Danma sub adverse tristia Marte tulit. 

Ovid's address to Janus, than which in the ori- 
ginal scarce any thing can be more poetical, is thus 
familiarized into something much worse than prose 
by the translator • — 

" Say, Janus, say, why we begin the year 
In winter? sure the spring is better far: 
All things are then renew' d; a youthful dress 
Adorns the flowers, and beautifies the trees; 
New swelling buds appear upon the vine, 
And apple-blossoms round the orchard shine; 
Birds fill the air with the harmonious lay. 
And lambkins in the meadows frisk and play; 
The swallow then forsakes her wint'ry rest, 
And In the chimney chatt'ring makes her nest; 
The fields are then renew'd, the ploughman's care; 
Mayn't this be cpll'd renewing O' '\e year? 
To ray long questions Janus brief rephed. 
And his whole answer to two verses tied. 
The winter tropic ends the solar race. 
Which is begun again from the same place ; 
And to explain more fully what you crave, 
The sun and year the same beginning have. 
But why on new-year's day, said I again, 
Are suits commenced in courts? The reason's 

plain, 
Replied the god ; that business may be done, 
And active labour emulate the sun. 
With business is the year auspiciously begun ; 
But every artist, soon as he was tried 
To work a little, lays his work aside. 
Then I ; but further, father Janus, say, 
When to the gods we our devotions pay, 
Why wine and incense first to thee are given? 
Because, said he, I keep the gates of heaven; 
That when you the inmiortal powers address, 
By me to them you may have free access. 
But why on new-year's day are presents made, 
And more than common salutations paid? 
Then, leaning on his staflF, the god rephes, 
In all beginnings there an omen lies ; 
From the first word, we guess the whole design, 
And augurs, from the first-seen bird, divine ; 
The gods attend to every mortal's prayer. 
Their ears and temples always open are." 

Die, age, frigoribus quare novus incipit annus, 

Qui melius per ver incipiendus eia.l1 
Omnia tunc florent : tunc est nova temporis setas : 

Et nova de gravido palmite gemma tumet. 
Et modo formatis amicitur vitibus arbos : 

Prodit et in suimnum seminis herba solum: 
Et tepidum volucres concentibus aera mulcent : 

Ludit et in pratis, luxuriatque pecus. 
Tum blandi soles: ignotaque prodit hirundo; 

Et luteum celsa sub trabe fingit opus. 
Tum patitur cultus ager, et renovatur aratro. 

HcBC anni novitas jure vocanda fuit. 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



241 



Quassieram multis : non multis ille moratus, 

Contulit in versus sic sua verba duos. 
Bruma novi prima est, veterisque novissima solis: 

Principium capiunt Phcebus et annus idem. 
Post ea mirabar, cur non sine litibus esset 

Prima dies. Causam percipe, Janus ait. 
Tempera commisi nascentia rebus agendis; 

Totus ab auspicio ne foret anus iners. 
Quisque suas artes ob idem delibat agendo: 

Nee plus quam solitum testificatur opus. 
Mox ego; cur, quamvis aliorum numina placem, 

Jane, tibi prinio thura merumque fero) 
Ut per me possis aditum. qui limina servo, 

Ad quoscunque velim prorsus, liaberedeos 
At cur laeta tuis dicuntur verba kalendis; 

Et damus alternas accipimusque preces? 
Turn deus incumbens baculo, quern dextra gerebat ; 

Omnia principiis, inquit, inesse solent. 
Ad pi'imam vocem tlmidas advertitis aures: 

Et visam primum consulit augur avem. 
Templa patent auresque deum ; nee lingua caducas 

Concipit ulla precea ; dictaque pondus habent. 

Is there a possibility that any thing can be more 
different from Ovid in Latin than this Ovid in 
English? Quam sibi dispar! The translation is 
indeed beneath all criticism. But let us see what 
Mr. Massey can do with the sublime and more 
animated parts of the performance, where the sub- 
ject might have given him room to show his skill, 
and the example of his author stirred up tho fire 
of poetry in his breast, if he had any in it. To- 
wards the end of the second book of the Fasti, 
Ovid has introduced the most tender and interest- 
ing story of Lucrelia. The original is inimitable. 
Let us see what Mr. Massey has made of it iii his 
translation. After he has described Tarquin re- 
turning from the sight of the beautiful Lucretia, 
he proceeds thus ; 

" The near approach of day the cock declared 
By his shrill voice, when they again repair'd 
Back to the camp ; but Sextus there could find 
Nor peace nor ease for his distemper'd mind ; 
A spreading fire does in his bosom burn, 
Fain would he to the absent fair return ; 
The image of Lucretia fills his breast, 
Thus at her wheel she sat ! and thus was dress'd ! 
What sparkling eyes, what pleasure in her look ! 
How just her speech, and how divinely spoke! 
Like as the waves, raised by a boisterous wind, 
Sink by degrees, but leave a swell behind : 
So, though by absence lessen' d was his fire, 
There still remain'd the kindlings of desire; 
Unruly lust from hence began to rise, 
"Which how to gratify he must devise; 
All on a rack, and stung with mad designs, 
He reason to his passion quite resigns ; 
^ Whate'er's th' event, said he, I'll try my fate, 
Suspense in all things is a wretched state ; 
Let some assistant god, or chance, attend, 
All bold attempts they usually befriend : 
This way, said he, I to the Gabii trod ; 
Then girding on his sword, away he rode. 



The day was spent, the sun was nearly set, 
When he arrived before Collatia's gate; 
Like as a friend, hut with a sly intent, 
To Collatinus' house he boldly went; 
There he a kind reception met within 
From fair Lucretia, for they were akin. 
What ignorance attends the human mind! 
How oft we are to our misfortunes blind ! 
Thoughtless of harm, she made a handsome feast, 
And o'er a cheerful glass regaled her guest 
"With lively chat ; and then to bed they went ; 
But Tarquin still pursued his vile intent; 
All dark, about the dead of night he rose, 
And softly to Lucretia' s chamber goes ; 
His naked sword he carried in his hand, 
That what he could not win he might command; 
With rapture on her bed himself he threw, 
And as approaching to her lips he drew, 
Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said, 
'Tis I, 'tis Tarquin ; why are you afraid? 
Trembling with fear, she not a word could say. 
Her spirits fled, she fainted quite away ; 
Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude pavrs, 
Appall'd and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws ; 
"What can she do ? resistance would be vain. 
She a weak woman, he a vigorous man. 
Should she cry out ? his naked sword was by; 
One scream, said he, and you this instant die : 
Would she escape ? his hands lay on her breast, 
Now first by hands of any stranger press'd : 
The lover urged by threats, rewards, and prayers; 
But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she 

hears : 
Will you not yield ? he cries ; then know my will — 
When these my warm desires have had their fill, 
By your dead corpse I'll kill and lay a slave. 
And in that posture both together leave ; 
Then feign myself a witness of your shame, 
And fix a lasting blemish on your fame. 
Her mind the fears of blemished fame control, 
And shake the resolutions of her soul ; 
But of thy conquest, Tarquin, never boast. 
Gaining that fort, thou hast a kingdom lost ; 
Vengeance thy complicated guilt attends. 
Which both in thine, and fam'ly's ruin ends. 
With rising day the sad Lucretia rose. 
Her inward grief her outward habit shows ; 
Mournful she sat in tears, and all alone. 
As if she'd lost her only darling son ; 
Then for her husband and her father sent, 
Who Ardea left in haste to know th' intent; 
Who, when they saw her all in mourning dress'd. 
To know the occasion of her grief, request ; 
Whose funeral she mourn'd desired to know, 
Or why she had put on those robes of woe? 
She long conceal'd the melancholy cause. 
While from her eyes a briny fountain flows; 
Her aged sire, and tender husband strive 
To heal her grief, and words of comfort give- 



S-IS 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



"Vet tlrcat! some fatal consequence to liear, 
And begg'd she would the cruel cause declare." 

Jam ilederat cantum li'.cis pvasimncius ales 

Cum referunt juvenes in sua castra ijedem. 
Carpitur atmnitos abseniis imagine sensus 

Ille: recorilanti pluva magisque placent. 
Sic sedii : sis culta lliit : sic s:amiin novit: 

Ne,glectae colla sic jacuere con.ce ; 
Hos liabuit VLiltas : liio illi verba fusrs: 

nic ileco.-, liLEC (acie?, liic color oris erat, 
Ut solet a nngno fiuctus langiiescere ilatu : 

SctJ tamen a vento, qui luit ante, tumetr 
Kic, quamvis aberat |)lacitc6 praeseniia Ibrms, 

Quem dederat pra;3ens furma, manebat amor. 
Ardet; et injusfi stiinulis agitatus amoris 

Comparat indigno vimciue dolumque toro. 
Exitus in dubia est: audebinius ultima, dixit: 

Viderit, audends lorsne deusne juvet. 
Cepimus audendo Galiios quoque. Talia fatus 

Ense latus cingit: tcrgaque pressit cqui. 
Accijiit airata juvenem C'ollaiia ])orta : 

Condere jam vultus sole paiaiite suos. 
Ilosiis, ut hosjcp, init penetralia CoUatina: 

Comiter e.xc ijjitur : sanguine junclus erat. 
Cluan'umai.injiserroris inest! paral inscia rerum 

InlHix ejitdas hosiibus ilia suis. 
Functus erat dapibus: jjoscunt sua lemporasor.ini. 

Nox erat ; et tota lumina nulla domo. 
fc'iKgit; et auratum vagina deripit ensem: 

El vcnit in ihalamoS; nupta ])udica, tuos. 
TJtqne torum pressit; ferrum, Lticretia, mecum est, 

Natus, ait, regis, Tarquiniiisque vocor. 
ria nihil: neqne enim vocem viresque loquendi^ 

Aut aliquid toto pectore mentis liabet. 
Sed tremit, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relictis, 

Parva ?ub infesto cum jacet agne lupo. 
Quid faciat? pugnet? vincetur femina jiugna. 

Claniet? at in dextra, qui necet, ensis adesL 
JEffugiat? positls urgetur ])eetora palmis; 

Nunc primum e;aerna jiectora tacta manu. 
Instat amans hostis precibus, pretioque, minisque. 

Nee prece, noc prelio, nee movel ille minis. 
Nil agis ; eripiam, dixit, jier criniina vitam: 

Falsus adulterii testis adulter ero. 
liiterimam famulum; cum quo deprensa fereris. 

Succubuit famaj victa puella nietu. 
Quid, victor, gaiides? Iiaic te victoria perdet. 

Heu quanto regnis nox steiit una luls ! 
Jamque erai orui dies: passis sedst ilia capillis; 

lit sdleiad naii mater iiura mgum. 
Grandajvumque patrcin fidocum conjuge castria 

Evocal; et jxisita veniluterque mora. 
Utque vident habitum; qure luctus causa, requirunt; 

(Jni p:xret exssquiis, quovesit icta miLi. 
IlUdiu reticet, puilibundaque celat atiiictu 

Ora. Fluunt lacvyma; more perennis aqua?. 
Hinc pater, hinc coiijux lacrymassolantur, etorant 

Indicet: et cceco llentqua paventque metu. 
Ter conata loqui, etc. 

Our readers "will easily perceive by this short 
spccitnen, how very unequal Mr. Massey is to a 
translation of Ovid. In many places he has deviated 
entirely from the sense, and in every part fallen infi- 
nitely below the strength, elegance, and spirit of the 
original. Wc must beg leave, therefore, to remind 
him of the old Italigtn proverb,* and hope he will 



never for the future traduce and injure any of those 
poor ancients who never injured him, by thus pes- 
tering the world with such translations as even his 
own school-boys ought to be v/ltipped ibr. 



• II Tradattorcs Traditore, 



CRITICISM 

ON' 

BARRET'S TRANSLATION 

OVID'S EPISTLES, 

[Published in 1759.] 

The praise which is every day lavished upon' 
Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, is often no more than an 
indirect methotl the critic takes to compliment his 
own discernment. Their works have long been 
considered as models of beauty : to praise them now 
is only to show the conl'ormity of our tastes to 
theirs; it tends not toadvance their reputation, but 
to promote our own. Let us then dismiss, for the 
present, the pedantry of panegyric ; Ovid needs it 
not, and wc are not disposed to turn encomiasts on 
ourselves. 

It will be sufficient to observe, that the multi^ 
tude of translators which have attempted this poefe 
serves to evince the number of his admirers; and 
their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling 
his elegance or his ease. 

Dryden, ever poor, and ever- willing to be obliged, 
solicited the assistance of his friends &r a transla- 
tion of these epistles. It was not the first time his 
miseries obhged him to call in happier bards to his 
aid ; and to permit such to quarter their fleeting 
performances on the lasting merit of his name. 
This eleemosynary translation, as might well be 
expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust 
to the poet^s meanings almost alwav's so to his fame. 
It was published without notes; for it was not at, 
that time customary to swell every performance of 
this nature with comment and scholia. The read-, 
er did not then choose to have the current of his 
passions interrupted, his attention every moment 
called off from jileasure only, to be in,fbrmcd why 
he was so pleased. It was not then thought neces- 
sary to lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like 
some spectators we have met at the play-house, to 
take off our attent )n from the performance, by 
telling in our ear, what will follow next. 

Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to mis,- 
fortune, has undergone successive metamorphoses, 
being sometimes transposed by schoolmasters un- 
acquaintod with English, and somelimestransverscd 
by ladies who knew no Latin : thus he has alter- 
nately worn the drpss of a pedant or a vake ; either 
crawling in humble prose, or having his hints exv 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



243 



plained into unbashful meaning. Schoolmasters, 
who knew all that was in him except his graces, 
give the names of places and towns at full length, 
and he moves along stiffly in their literal versions, 
as the man who, as we are told in the Philosophi- 
cal Transactions, was afflicted with a universal 
anchilosis. His female imitators, on the other 
hand, regard the dear creatm-e only as a lover; ex- 
press the delicacy of his passion by the ardour of 
their own ; and if now and then he is found to grow 
a little too warm, and jxjrhaps to express himself a 
little indelicately, it must be imputed to the more 
poignant sensations of his fair admirers. In a 
word, we have seen him stripped of all his beauties 
in the versions of Stirling and Clark, and talk like 

a debauchee in that of Mrs. ; but the sex 

should ever be sacred from criticism ; perhaps the 
ladies have a right to describe raptures wliich none 
l)Ut themselves can bestow. 

A poet, like Ovid, whose greatest beauty lies 
lather in expression than sentiment, must be ne- 
cessarily difficult to translate. A fine sentiment 
may be conveyed several different ways, without 
impairing its vigour; but a sentence delicately ex- 
pressed will scarcely admit the least variation with- 
out losing beauty. The performance before us 
will serve to convince the public, that Ovid is more 
easily admired than imitated. The translator, in 
his notes, shows an ardent zeal for the reputation 
of his poet. It is possible too he may have felt his 
beauties; however, he does not seem possessed ol 
the happy art of giving his feelings expression. If 
a kindred spirit, as we have often been told, must 
animate the translator, we fear the claims of Mr. 
Barret will never receive a sanction in the heraldry 
of Parnassus. 

His intentions, even envy must own, are laud- 
able: nothing less than to instruct boys, school- 
masters, grown gentlemen, the public, in the prin- 
ciples of taste {io use his own expression), both 
by prectpt and by example. His manner it seems 
is, "to read a course of poetical lectures to his pu- 
pils one night in the week; which, beginning with 
this author, running through select pieces of our 
own, as well as the Latin and Greek writers, and 
ending with Longinus, contributes no little to- 
wards forming their taste." No little, reader ob- 
serve that, from a person so perfectly master of the 
force of his own language : what may not be ex- 
pected from his comments on the beauties of an- 
other? 

But, in order to show in what maniier he has 
executed these intentions, it is proper he should 
first march in review as a poet. We shall select 
the first epistle that offers, which is that from Pene- 
lope to Ulysses, observing beforehand, that the 
whole translation is a most convincing instance, 
that English words may be placed in Latin order, 
without being wholbj unintelligible. Such forced 



transpositions serve at once to give an idea of the 
translator's learning, and of difficulties sunnounted. 

PENELOPE TO ULYSSES. 

This, still your wife, my ling' ring lord ! I send: 
Yet be your answer personal, not pcnn'd." 

These lines seem happily imitated from Taylor, 
the water-poet, who has it thus ; 

"To thee, dear Ursula, these lines I send, 
Not with my hand, but with my heart, they're 
peun'd." 

But not to make a pause in the reader's pleasure, 
we proceed. 

"Sunk now is Troy, the curse of Grecian dames! 
(Her king, her all, a worthless prize!) in fiamcs. 
O had by storms (his fleet to Sparta bound) 
Th' adult'rer perished in the mad profound! 

Here seems some obscurity in tl;e translation ; 
we are at a loss to know what is meant by the mad 
profound. It can certainly mean neither Ecdlam 
nor Fleet-Ditch; for though the epithet mad might 
agree vv'ith one, or profound with the other, yet 
when united they seem incompatible witli cither. 
The profound has frequently been used to signify 
bad verses; and poets are sometimes said to be 
mad: who knows but Penelope wishes that Paris 
might have died in the very act of rhyming; and 
as iie was a shepherd, it is not improbable to sup- 
pose but that he was a poet also. 

"Cold in a widow'd bed I ne'er had lay, 
Nor chid with weary eyes the hng'ring day." 

Larj for lain, by the figure gingliinus. The 
translator makes frequent use of tliis figure, 

"Nor the protracted nuptials to avoid, 
By night unravcil'd what the day employed, 
y/lien have not fancied dangers broke my rrst? 
Love, tim'rous passion! rends the anxious breast. 
In thought I saw you each fierce Trojan's aiai; 
Pale at the mention of bold Hector's name!" 

Ovid makes Penelope shudder at the name of 
Hector. Our translator, with great propriety, 
transfers the fright from Penelope to Ulysses him- 
self: it is he who grows pale at the name of Hec- 
tor; and well indeed he might; for Hector is repre- 
sented by Ovid, somewhere else, as a terrible fel- 
low, and Ulysses as little better than a poltroon. 

"Whose spear when brave Aniilochus imbrued, 
By the dire news awoke, my fear renew'd 
Clad in dissembled arms Patroclus died: 
And "Oh the fate of stratagem!" I cried. 
Tlepolemus, beneath the Lycian dart. 
His breath resign'd, and roused afresh my smart. 



644 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Thus, when each Grecian press'd the bloody field, 
Cold icy horrors my fond bosom chill'd." 

Here we may observe how epithets tend to 
strengthen the force of expression. First, her hor- 
rors are cold, and so far Ovid seems to think also; 
but the translator adds, from himself, the epithet 
icy, to show that they are still colder — a fine chmax 
of frigidity ! 

"But Heaven, indulgent to my chaste desire, 
Haswrapp'd (my husband safe) proud Troy in 
fire." 

The reader may have already observed one or 
two instances of our translator's skill, in parentheti- 
cally clapping one sentence within another. This 
contributes not a little to obscurity ; and obscurity, 
we all know, is nearly allied to admiration. Thus, 
when the reader begins a sentence which he finds 
pregnant with another, which still teems with a 
third, and so on, he feels the same surprise which 
a countryman does at Bartholomew-fair. Hocus 
shows a bag, in appearance empty; slap, and out 
come a dozen new-laid eggs; slap again, and the 
number is doubled; but what is his amazement, 
when it swells with the hen that laid them! 

"The Grecian chiefs return, each altar shines, 
And spoils of Asia grace our native shrines. 
Gifts, for their lords restored, the matrons bring ; 
The Trojan fates o'ercome, triumphant sing; 
Old men and trembling maids admire the songs. 
And wives hang, list'ning, on their husbands' 
tongues. " 

Critics have expatiated, in raptures, on the deli- 
cate use the ancients have made of the verb pen- 
dere. Virgil's goats are described as hanging on 
the mountain side; the eyes of a lady hang on the 
looks of her lover. Ovid has increased the force of 
the metaphor, and describes the wife as hanging on 
the lips of her husband. Our translator lias gone 
still farther, and described the lady as pendent from 
his tongue. A fine picture ! 

"Now, drawn in wine, fierce battles meet their 

eyes, 
And llion's towers in miniature arise: 
There stretch' d Sigean plains, hereSimoisflow'd: 
And there old Priam's lofty palace stood. 
Here Peleus' son encamp'd, Ulysses there; 
Here Hector's corpse distain'd the rapid car." 

" Of this the Pylian sage, in quest of thee 
Embark'd, your son inform'd his mother he." 

If we were permitted to offer a correction upon 
the two last lines, we would translate them into 
plain English thus, still preserving the rhyme en- 
tile. 



The Pylian sage inform'd your son embark'd in 

quest of thee 
Of this, and he his mother, that is me. 

" He told how Rhesus and how Dolon fell, 

By your wise conduct and Tydides' steel ; 

That doom'd by heavy sleep oppress'd to die, 

And this pr-evented, a nocturnal spy ! 

Rash man ! undmindful what your friends you ovre, 

Night's gloom to tempt, and brave a Thracian foe 

By one assisted in the doubtful strife ; 

To me how kind ! how provident of life ! 

Still throbb'd my breast, till, victor, from the plain, 

You join'd, on Thracian steeds, th' allies again. 

" But what to me avails high Ilium's fall, 
Or soil continued o'er its ruin'd wall ; 
If still, as when it stood, my wants remain ; 
If still I wish you in these arms in vain? 

" Troy, sack'd to others, j'et to me remains, 
Though Greeks, with captive oxen, till her plains, 
Ripe harvests bend where once her turrets stood ; 
Rank in her soil, manured with Phrygian blood ; 
Harsh on the ploughs, men's bones, half buried, 

sound, 
And grass each ruin'd mansion hides around. 
Yet, hid in distant climes, my conq'ror stays; 
Unknown the cause of these severe delays ! 

" No foreign merchant to our isle resorts, 

But question'd much of you, he leaves our ports ; 

Hence each departing sail a letter bears 

To speak (if you are found) my anxious cares. - 

"Our son to Pylos cut the briny wave; 
But Nestor's self a dubious answer gave; 
To Sparta next — nor even could Sparta tell 
What seas you plough, or in what region dwell ! 

" Better had stood Apollo's sacred wall : 

could 1 now my former wish recall I 

War my sole dread, the scene I then should know ; 
And thousands then would share the common woe : 
But all things now, not knowing what to fear, 

1 dread ; and give too large a field to care. 
Whole lists of dangers, both by land and sea. 
Are muster'd, to have caused so long delay. 
"But while your conduct thus I fondly clear. 
Perhaps (true man !) you court some foreign fair ; 
Perhaps you rally your domestic loves, 

Whose art the snowy fleece alone improves. 

No ! may I err, and start at false alarms ; 

May nought but force detain you from my arms. 

" Urged by a father's right again to wed. 
Firm I refuse, still faithful to your bed ! 
Still let him urge the fruitless vain design; 
1 am — I must be — and I will be thine. 
Though melted by my chaste desires, of late 
His rig'rous importunities abate. 



PREFACES AND CRITICISM. 



245 



•' Of teasing suitors a luxurious train, 

From neighbouring isles, have cross'd the liquid 

plain. 
Here uncontroU'd the audacious crews resort, 
Rifle in your wealth, and revel in your court. 
Pisander, Polybus, and Medon lead, 
Antinous and Eurymachus succeed, 
With others, whose rapacious throats devour 
The wealth you purchased once, distained with 

gore. 
Melanthius add, and Irus, hated name ! 
A beggar rival to complete our shame. 

" Three, helpless three! are here ; a wife not strong, 
A sire too aged, and a son too young. 
He late, by fraud, embark'd for Pylos' shore. 
Nigh from my arms for ever had been tore." 

These two lines are replete with beauty : nigh, 
which implies approximation, and from, which 
implies distance, are, to use our translator's expres- 
sions, drawn as it were up in line of battle. Tore 
is put for torn, that is, torn by fraud, from her 
arms; not that her son played truant, and embark- 
ed by fraud, as a reader who does not understand 
Latin might be apt to fancy. 

"Heaven grant the youth survive each parent's 

date. 
And no cross chance reverse the course of fate. 
Your nurse and herdsman join this wish of mine. 
And the just keeper of your bristly swine." 

Our translator observes in a note, that " the sim- 
plicity expressed in these lines is so far from being 
a blemish, that it is, in fact, a very great beauty ; 
and the modern critic, who is offended with the 
mention of a sty, however he may pride himself 
upon his false delicacy, is either too short-sighted 
to penetrate into real nature, or has a stomach too 
nice to digest the noblest relics of antiquity. He 
means, no doubt, to digest a hog-sty ; but, antiquity 
apart, we doubt if even Powel the fire-eater him- 
self could bring his appetite to relish so unsavoury 
a repast. 

" By age your sire disarm'd, and wasting woes. 
The helm resigns, anaidst surrounding foes. 
This may your son resume (when years allow), 
But oh ! a father's aid is wanted now. 
Nor have I strength his title to maintain. 
Haste, then, our only refuge, o'er the main." 

" A son, and long may Heaven the blessing grant. 
You have, whose years a sire's instruction want. 
Think how Laertes drags an age of woes. 
In hope that you his dying eyes may close; 
And 1, left youthful in my early bloom. 
Shall aged seem ; how soon soe'er you come." 

But let not the reader imagine we can find plea- 
sure in thus exposing absurdities, which are too 



ludicrous for serious reproof. While we censure 
as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely wish 
that those, whose greatest sin, is perhaps, the ve- 
nial one of writing bad verses, would regard their 
failure in this respect as ws do, not as faults, but 
foibles ; they may be good and useful members of 
society, without being poets. The regions of taste 
can be travelled only by a few, and even those 
often find indifllerent accommodation by the way. 
Let such as have not got a passport from nature be 
content with happiness, and leave the poet the un- 
rivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and 
his fame. 

We have of late seen the republic of letters 
crowded with some, who have no other pretensions 
to applause but industry, who have no other merit 
but that of reading many books, and making long 
quotations ; these we have heard extolled by sym- 
pathetic dunces, and have seen them carry off the 
rewards of genius; while others, who should have 
been born in better days, felt all the wants of pov- 
erty, and the agonies of contempt. Who then 
that has a regard for the public, for the literary 
honours of our country, for the figure we shall one 
day make among posterity, that would not choose 
to see such humbled as are possessed only of talents 
that might have made good cobblers, had fortune 
turned them to trade 7 Should such prevail, the 
real interests of learning must be in a reciprocal 
proportion to the power they possess. Let it be 
then the character of our periodical endeavours, and 
hitherto we flatter ourselves it has ever been, not to 
permit an ostentation of learning to pass for merit, 
nor to give a pedant quarter upon the score of liis 
industry alone, even though he took refuge behind 
Arabic, or powdered his hair with hieroglyphics. 
Authors thus censured may accuse our judgment, 
or our reading, if they please, but our own hearts 
will acquit us of envy or ill-nature, since we re- 
prove only with a desire to reform. 

But we had almost forgot, that our translator is 
to be considered as a critic as well as a poet ; and 
in this department he seems also equally unsuc- 
cessful with the former. Criticism at present is 
different from what it was upon the revival of taste 
in Europe; all its rules are now well known ; the 
only art at present is, to exhibit them in such lights 
as contribute to keep the attention alive, and excite 
a favourable audience. It must borrow graces 
from eloquence, and please while it aims at instruc- 
tion : but instead of this, we have a combination of 
trite observations, delivered in a style in which 
those who are disposed to make war upon words, 
will find endless opportunities of triumph. 

He is sometimes hypercritical ; thus, page 9. 
" Pope in his excellent Essay on Criticism (as will, 
in its place, when you come to be lectured upon it, 
at full be explained,) terms thism.aking the sound an 
echo to the sense. But I apprehend that definition 



243 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



takos ia bat a part, for the best ancient poets ex- 
celled in thus pointing to the eye as well as to the 
ear. Virgil, dcKcribing liis housewife preparing her 
wine, exliibits the act of the fire to the eye. 

' Aut ilulcis inu?ii Viilcano decoquit humorem, 
Et Ibliis und.-im trepidi dispumat alieni.' 

" For the line (if I may be allowed the expres- 
Eion) boils over; and in order to reduce it to its 
proper bounds, you must, with her, skim off the 
redundant syllable." These are beauties, which, 
doubtless, the reader is displeased he can not 
discern. 

Somclimc.T confused : " There is a deal of artful 
>nd concealed satire in what CEnone throws out 
against Helen : and to speak truth, there was fair 
scope for it, and it might naturally be expected. 
Her chief design was to render his new mistress 
sii.=!pccted of meretricious arts, and make him ap- 
prehensive that she would hereafter be as ready to 
leave him for some new gallant, as she had be- 
fore, perfidiously to her lawful husband, followed 
Lim." 



Sometimes contradictory : thus, page 3. " Style 
(says he) is used by some writers, as synonymous 
with diction, yet in my opinion, it has rather a 
complex sense, including both sentiment and dic- 
tion." Oppose to this, page 135. "As to con- 
cord and even style, they are acquirable by most 
youth in due time, and by many with ease; but 
the art of thinking properly, and choosing the best 
sentiments on every subject, is what comes later."" 

And sometimes he is guilty of false criticism : as 
when he says, Ovid's chief excellence lies in de^ 
scription. Descrijition was the rock on which he 
always split ; Nescivit qxiod bene cessit relinquere,- 
as Seneca says of him : when once he embarks in 
description, he most commonly tires us before he 
has done with it. But to tire no longer the reader, 
or the translator with extended censure ; as a critic, 
this gentleman seems to have drawn his knowkdge 
from the remarks of others, and not liisown reflec- 
tion; as a translator, he understands the language 
of Ovid, but not his beauties; and though he may 
he an excellent schoolmaster, he lias, however no 
pretensions to taste. 



LETTERS 



©sffiasas ®w ^mm w^m^m 



FRIENBS XKT THE EAST. 



THE EDITOR'S PREFACE. 

TriE schoolmen had formerly a very exact way 
*«f computing the abilities of their saints or authors. 
Escobar, for instance, was said to have learning as 
five, genius as Ibur, and gravity as seven. Cara- 
mucl was greater than he. His learning was as 
eight, his genius as six, and his gravity as thir- 
teen. Were I to cslimate the merits of our Chi- 
nese Philosopher by the same scale, I would not 
hesitate to state his genius still higher; but as to 
his learning and gravity, these, I think, might 
safely be marked as nine hundred and ninety-nine, 
within one degree of absolute frigidity. 

Yet, upon his first appearance here, many were 
angry not to find him as ignorant as a Tripoline 
ambassador, or an envoy from Mujac. They vi'ere 
surprised to find a man born so far from London, 
that school of prudence and wisdom, endued even 
with a moderate capacity. They expressed the 
same surjirise at his knowledge that the Chinese 
»]o at ours. *How comes it, said they, that the 
Europeans so remote from China, think with so 
much justice and jirecision? They have never 
read our books, they scarcely know even our let- 
ters, and yet they talk and reason just as we do. 
The truth i^s, the Chinese and vfe are pretty much 
alike. Eificrent degrees of refinement, and not of 
distance, mark the distinctions among mankind. 
Savages of the most opposite climates have all but 
one character of improvidence and rapacity ; and 
tutored nations, however separate, make use of 
the very same method to procure refined enjoy- 
ment. 

The distinctions of polite nations are few, but 
such as are peculiar to the Chinese, appear in every 
page of the following correspondence. The me- 
taphors and allusions are all drawn from the East. 



' Le Comte, vol. i. p. 210, 



Their formality our author carefully prcssrvea. 
Many of their favourite tenets in morals are illus- 
trated. The Chinese are always concise, so is he. 
Simple, so is he. The Chinese are grave and sen- 
tentious, so is he. But in one particular the resem- 
blance is peculiarly striking : the Chinese are often 
dull, and so is he. Nor has any assistance been 
wanting. Wearetold in anold romance, of a certain 
knight errant and his horse who contracted an inti- 
mate friendship. The horse most usually bore the 
knight; but, in cases of extraordinary dispatch, 
the knight returned the fa\our, and carried his 
horse. Thus, in the intimacy between my author 
and me, he has usually given me a lift of his east- 
ern sublimity, and 1 have sometimes given him a 
return of my colloquial ease. 

Yet it appears strange, in this season of pane- 
gyric, when scarcely an author passes unpraised, 
either by his friends or himself, that such merit as 
our Philosopher's should be forgotten. While the 
e[>ithets of ingenious, copious, elaborate, and re- 
fined, arc lavished among the mob, like medals at 
a coronation, the lucky prizes fall on every side, 
but not one on him. 1 could, on this occasion, 
make myself melancholy, by considering the ca- 
priciousness of public taste, or the mutability of 
fortune: but, during (his fit of morality, lest my 
reader shouhl sleep, I'll take a nap myself, and 
when 1 awake tell him my dream. 

1 imagined the Thames was frozen over, and I 
stood by its side. Several booths were erected 
upon the ice, and I was told by one of the specta- 
tors, that Fashion Fair was going to begin. He 
added, that every author who would carry his 
works there, might probably find a very good re- 
ception. I was resolved, however, to observe the 
humours of the place in safety from the shore; 
sensible that the ice was at best precarious, and 
having been always a little cowardly in my sleep. 



y48 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Several of my acquaintance seemed much more 
hardy than I, and went over the ice with intrepidi- 
ty. Some carried their works to the fair on sledges, 
some on carts, and those which were more volu- 
minous, were conveyed in wagons. Their te- 
merity astonished me. I knew their cargoes were 
heavy, and expected every moment they would 
have gone to the bottom. They all entered the 
fair, however, in safety, and each soon after re- 
turned to my great surprise, highly satisfied with 
his entertainment, and the bargains he had brought 
away. 

The success of such numbers at last began to 
operate upon me. If these, cried I, meet with fa- 
vour and safety, some luck may, perhaps, for once, 
attend the unfortunate. I am resolved to make a 
new adventure. The furniture, frippery, and fire- 
works of China, have long been fashionably bought 
up. I'll try the fair with a small cargo of Chinese 
morality. If the Chinese have contributed to viti- 
ate our taste, I'll try how far they can help to im- 
prove our understanding. But as others have 
driven into the market in wagons, I'll cautiously 
begin by venturing with a wheelbarrow. Thus 
resolved, I baled up my goods, and fairly ventured ; 
when, upon just entering the fair, I fancied the ice 
that had supported a hundred wagons before, 
cracked under me, and wheelbarrow and all went 
to the bottom. 

Upon awaking from my reverie with the fright, 
I can not help wishing that the pains taken in giv- 
ing this correspondence an English dress, had been 
employed in contriving new political systems, or 
new plots for farces. I might then have taken my 
station in the world, either as a poet or a philoso- 
pher, and made one in those little societies where 
men club to raise each other's reputation. But at 
present I belong to no particular class. I resemble 
one of those animals that has been forced from its 
forest to gratify human curiosity. My earliest wish 
was to escape unheeded through life ; but I have 
been set up for halfpence, to fret and scamper at 
the end of my chain. Though none are injured 
by my rage, I am naturally too savage to court any 
friends by fawning ; too obstinate to be taught new 
tricks ; and too improvident to mind what may hap- 
pen. I am appeased, though not contented. Too 
indolent for intrigue, and too t'imid to push for fa- 
vour, I am — but what signifies what 1 am. 

OvS'sv ifAoi ^ vy.tr jtoi/^sts Toas y-nr' ty-i. 

Fortune and Hope, ailieu! — ^I see my Port: 
Too long youi' dupe; be others now your sport. 



LETTERS FROM A 

CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 

TO HIS 

FRIENDS IN THE EAST. 

LETTER I. 
To Mr. * " ', Merchant in London. 

Sir, Amsterdafti. 

Yours of the 13th instant, covering two bills, 
one on Messrs. R. and D. value 478Z. 10s. and the 
other on Mr. ****, value 285/., duly came to hand, 
the former of which met with honour, but the other 
has been trifled with, and I am afraid will be re- 
turned protested. 

The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him 
be yours. He is a native of Honan in China, and 
one who did me signal services, when he was a 
mandarine, and I a factor, at Canton. By fre- 
quently conversing with the English there, he has 
learned the language; though he is entirely a stran- 
ger to their manners and customs. I am told he 
is a philosopher ; I am sure he is an honest man : 
that to you will be his best recommendation, next 
to the consideration of his being the friend of, sir, 

Yours, etc. 



LETTER II. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to ' * * ", Merchant in Amsterdam. 

Friend of my Heart, London. 

May the icings of peace rest upon thy dwelling, 
and the shield of conscience preserve thee from 
rice and misery'. For all thy favours accept my 
gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor phi- 
losophic wanderer can return. Sure, fortune is 
resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives 
others a power of testifying their friendship by ac- 
tions, and leaves me only words to express the sin- 
cerity of mine. 

I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which 
you endeavour to lessen your own merit and my 
obligations. By calling your late instances of 
friendship only a return for former favours, you 
would induce me to impute to your justice what 
I owe to your generosity. 

The services I did you at Canton, justice, hu- 
manity, and my office, bade me perform : those you 
have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam, no 
laws obliged you to, no justice required, — even half 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



349 



your favours would have been greater than my 
most sanguine expectations. 

The sum of money, therefore, which you pri- 
vately conveyed into my baggage, when I was 
leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till 
my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. 
You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; 
you consequently love money better than I. You 
can find pleasure in superfluity ; I am perfectly con- 
tent with what is sufficient. Take therefore what 
is yours, it may give you some pleasure, even 
though you have no occasion to use it ; my happi- 
ness it can not improve, for I have already all that 
I want. 



up every passage; so that a stranger, instead of find- 
ing time for observation, is often happy if he has 
time to escape from being crushed to pieces. 

The houses borrow very few ornaments from ar- 
chitecture ; their chief decoration seems to be a pal- 
try piece of painting hung out at their doors or 
windows, at once a proof of their indigence and 
vanity: their vanity, in each having one of those 
pictures exposed to public view; and their indi- 
gence, in being unable to get them better painted. 
In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also 
deplorable. Could you believe it 1 I have seen five 
black lions and three blue boars, in less than the 
circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that ani- 



My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England mals of these colours are no where to be found ex- 



was more painful to me than all the journey^s I 
ever made on land. I have traversed the immea- 
surable wilds of Mogul Tartary; felt all the ri- 
gours of Siberian skies : I have had my repose a 
hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and 
have seen, without shrinking, the desert sands rise 
like a troubled ocean all around me : against these 
calamities I was armed with resolution ; but in my 
passage to England, though nothing occurred that 
gave the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was 
never at sea before, all was a subject of astonish- 
ment and terror. To find the land disappear, to 
see our ship mount the waves, swift as an arrow 
from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling 
through the cordage, to feel a sickness which de- 
pi-esses even the spirits of the brave ; these were 
unexpected distresses, and consequently assaulted 
me unprepared to receive them. 

You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage 
by sea. With us of China, a man who has been 
from sight of land is regarded upon his return with 
admiration. I have known some provinces where 
there is not even a name for the Ocean. What a 
strange people, therefore, am I got amongst, who 
have founded an empire on this unstable element, 
who build cities upon billows that rise higher than 
the mountains of Tipertala, and make the deep 
more formidable than the wildest tempest ! 

Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my 
first motives for seeing England. These induced 
me to undertake a journey of seven hundred pain- 
ful days, in order to examine its opulence, build- 
ings, sciences, arts, and manufactures, on the spot. 
Judge then my disappointment on entering Lon- 
don, to see no signs of that opulence so much talked 
of abroad : wherever I turn, I am presented with a 
gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and 
the inhabitants ; none of that beautiful gilding 
which makes a principal ornament in Chinese ar- 
chitecture. The streets of Nankin are sometimes 
strewed with gold-leaf; very different are those of 
London . in the midst of their pavements, a great 
lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy laden ma- 
chines, v;ith wheels of unwieldy thickness, crowd 



cept in the wild imaginations of Europe. 

From these circumstances in their buildings, and 
from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am in- 
duced to conclude that the nation is actually poor; 
and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid 
figure every where but at home. The proverb of 
Xixofou is, that a man's riches may be seen in his 
eyes : if we judge of the English by this rule, there 
is not a poorer nation under the sun. 

I have been here but two days, so will not be 
hasty in my decisions. Such letters as I shall 
write to Fipsihi in Moscow, I beg you'll endeavour 
to forward with all diligence ; I shall send them 
open, in order that you may take copies or transla- 
tions, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and 
Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of my ab- 
sence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even 
while I write, I lament our separation. Farewell. 



LETTER III. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to the care of Fipsihi, resident in 
Moscow, to be forwarded by the Russian caravan to Fum 
Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at Pe- 
liin in China. 

Think not, O thou guide of my youth ! that ab- 
sence can impair my respect, or interposing track- 
less deserts blot your reverend figure from my 
memory. The farther I travel I feel the pain of 
separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind 
me to my native country and you, are still un- 
broken. By every remove, I only drag a greater 
length of chain. * 

Could I find aught worth transmitting from so 
remote a region as this to which I have wandered, 
1 should gladly send it; but, instead of this, you 
must be contented with a renewal of my former 
professions, and an imperfect account of a people 



We find a repetition of this beautiful and affecting image 
in the Traveller: 

"And dxaga at each remove a lengthening chain." 



250 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



with whom I am as yet but superficially acquaint- 
ed. The remarks of a man who has been but 
three days in the country, can only be those obvi- 
ous circumstances which force themselves upon the 
imagination. I consider myself here as a newly- 
created being introduced into a new world; every 
object strikes with wonder and surprise. The 
imagination, still unsated, seems the only active 
principle of the mind. The most trifling occur- 
rences give pleasure till the gloss of novelty is worn 
away. When I have ceased to wonder, I may 
possibly grow wise; I may then call the reasoning 
principle to my aid, and compare those objects with 
each other, which were before examined without 
reflection. 

Behold me then in London, gazing at the 
strangers, and they at me : it seems they find some- 
what absurd in my figure; and had I been never 
from home, it is possible I might find an infinite 
fund of ridicule in theirs; but by long travelling I 
am taught to laugh at folly alone, and to find no- 
thing truly ridiculous but villany and vice. 

When 1 had just quitted my native country, and 
crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every deviation 
from the customs and manners of China was a de- 
parting from nature. I smiled at the blue lips and 
red foreheads of the Tonguese; and could hardly 
contain when I saw the Daures dress their heads 
with horns. The Ostiacs powdered with red earth ; 
and the Calmuck beauties, tricked out in all the 
finery of sheep-skin, appeared highly ridiculous : 
but I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in 
them but in me; that I falsely condemned others 
for absurdity, because they happened to differ from 
a standard originally founded in prejudice or parti- 
ality. 

I find no pleasure therefore in taxing the Eng- 
lish with departing from nature in their external 
appearance, which is all I yet know of their charac- 
ter : it is possible they only endeavour to improve 
her simple plan, since every extravagance in dress 
proceeds from a desire of becoming more beautiful 
than nature made us; and this is so harmless a 
vanity, that I not only pardon but approve it. A 
desire to be more excellent than others, is what ac- 
tually makes us so ; and as thousands find a liveh- 
liood in society by such appetites, none but the ig- 
norant inveigh against them. 

You arc not insensible, most reverend Fum 
Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the 
Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each 
other. Your nojc-borers, feet-swathers, tooth-stain- 
ers, eyebrovz-pluckers, would all want bread, should 
their neighbours want vanity. These vanities, 
however, employ much fewer hands in China than 
in England; and a fine gentleman or a fine lady 
here, dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to 
liave a single limb that does not suffer some distor- 
tions from art. 



To make a fine gentleman, several trades are re- 
quired, but chiefly a barber. You have undoubt- 
edly heu,id of the Jewish champion, whose strength 
lay in his hair. One would think that the English 
were for placing all wisdom there. To appear 
wise, nothing more is requisite here than for a man 
to borrow hair from the heads of all his neighbours, 
and clap it like a bush on his own ; the distributors 
of law and physic slick on such quantities, that it 
is almost impossible, even in idea, to distinguish 
between the head and the hair. 

Those whom I have been now describing affect 
the gravity of the lion ; those 1 am going to de- 
scribe, more resemble the pert vivacity of smaller 
animals. The barber, who is still master of the 
ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the crown ; and 
then with a composition of meal and hog's-lard, 
plasters the wliole in such a manner as to make it 
impossible to distinguish whether the patient wears 
a cap or a plaster ; but, to make the picture more 
perfectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, 
a greyhound's tail, or a pig's tail, for instance, ap- 
pended to the back of the head, and reaching down 
to that place where tails in other animals are gener- 
ally seen to begin ; thus betailed and bepowdered, 
the man of taste fancies he improves in beauty, 
dresses up his hard-featured face in smiles, and at- 
tempts to look hideously tender. Thus equipped, 
he is qualified to make love, and hopes for success 
more from the powder on the outside of his head, 
than the sentiments within. 

Yet when I consider what sort of a creature the 
fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay his ad- 
dresses, it is not strange to find him thus equipped 
in order to please. She is herself every whit as 
fond of powder, and tails, and hog's-lard, as he. 
To speak my secret sentiments, most reverend 
Fum, the ladies here are horribly ugly; I can 
hardly endure the sight of them; they no way re- 
semble the beauties of China : the Europeans have- 
quite a different idea of beauty from us. When 1 
reflect on the small-footed perfections of an Eastern, 
beauty, how is it possible I should have eyes, for a 
woman whose feet are ten inches long 7 I shall 
never forget the beauties of my native city of Nan- 
few. How very broad their faces! how very short 
their noses ! how very little their eyes ! how very 
thin their lips ! how very black their teeth !: the 
snow on the tops of Bao is not fairer titan their 
cheeks ; and their eyebrows are small as the line 
by the pencil of CLuamsi. Here a lady with such 
perfections would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese 
beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but Eng- 
lish women are entirely diflerent; red cheeks, big 
eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not 
only seen here, but wished for ; and then they have 
such masculine feet, as actually serve some for 
walking ! 

Yet uncivil as nature has been, they seem re*. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



S31 



solved to outdo her in unkindness; they use white 
powder, blue powder^ and black powder, for their 
hair, and a red powder for the face on some parti- 
cular occasions. 

They like to have the face of various colours, as 
among the Tartars of Koreki, frequently sticking 
OXi) with spittle, little black patches on every part 
of it, except on the tip of the nose, which I have 
never seen with a patch. You'll have a better idea 
of their manner of placing these spots, when I have 
finished the map of an English face patched up to 
the fashion, which shall shoitly be sent to increase 
your curious collection of paintings, medals, and 
monsters. 

But what surprises more than all the rest is what 
I have just now been credilily informed by one of 
this country. "Most ladies here," says he, "have 
two faces; one face to sleep in. and another to show 
in company : the first is generally reserved for the 
husband and family at home ; the other put on to 
please strangers abroad : the family face is often in- 
different enough, but the out-door one looks some- 
tliing better ; this is always made at the toilet, 
where the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in coun- 
cil, and settle the complexion of the day." 

I can"t ascertain the truth of this remark ; how- 
ever, it is actually certain, that they wear more 
clothes within doors than without ; and I have seen 
a lady, who seemed to shudder at a breeze in her 
own apartment, appear half naked in the streets. 
Fai'cwcU. 



LETTER IV. 

To llie same. 

The English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet 
vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon my 
arrival, 1 attributed that reserve to modesty, which 
I now find has its origin in pride. Condescend to 
address them first, and you are sure of their ac- 
quaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you conciliate 
their friendship and esteem. They bear hunger, 
cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life without 
shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ; 
they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what 
they can not bear. An Englishman fears contempt 
more than death ; he often flies to death as a refuge 
fronr its pressure ; and dies when he fancies the 
world has ceased to esteem him. 

Pride seems the source not only of their nation- 
al vices, but of their national virtues also. An 
Englislnnan is taught to love his king as his friend 
but to acknowledge no other master than the laws 
■which himself has contributed to enact. He de- 
spises those nations, who, that one may be free. 
are all content to be slaves ; who first lift a tyrant 
into terror, and then shrink under his power as it 
delegated frora Heaven. Liberty is echoed in all 



their assemblies; and thousands might be found 
ready to offer up their lives for the sound, though 
perhaps not one of all the number understands its 
meaning. The lowest mechanic, however, looks 
upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of 
his country's freedom, and often uses a language 
that might seem haughty, even in the mouth of the 
great emperor, who traces his ancestry to the 
moon. 

A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, 
I could not avoid stopping, in order to listen to a 
dialogue which I thought might afford me some 
entertainment. The conversation was carried on 
between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a 
porter, who had stopped to rest his burden, and a 
soldier at the window. The subject was upon a 
threatened invasion from France, and each seemed 
extremely anxious to rescue his country from the 
impending danger. "For my part," cries the 
prisoner, " the greatest nf my apprehensions is for 
our freedom ; if the French should conquer, what 
would become of English liberty? My dear 
friends. Liberty is the Englishman's preroga- 
tive ; we must preserve that at the expense of our 
lives ; of thai the French shall never deprive us ; 
it is not to be expected that vien who are slaves 
themselves would preserve our freedom should 
they happen to conquer." — "Ay, slaves," cries the 
porter, " they are all slaves, fit only to carry burdens, 
every one of them. Before I would stoop to slave- 
ry, may this be my poison (and he held the goblet 
in his hand), may this be my poison — but I would 
sooner list for a soldier." 

The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, 
with much awe fervently cried out, "It is not so 
much our liberties as our religion, that would suf- 
fer by such a change : ay, our religion, my lads. 
May the devil sink me into flames (such was the 
solemnity of his adjuration), if the French should 
come over, but our religion woidd be utterly un- 
done. " So saying, instead of a libation, he applied 
the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments 
with a ceremony of the most persevering devo- 
tion. 

In short, every man here pretends to be a politi- 
cian; even the fair sex are sometimes found to mix 
the severity of national altercation with the bland- 
ishments of love, and often become conquerors, by 
more weapons of destruction than their eyes. 

This universal passion for politics, is gratified by 
daily gazettes, as with us at China. But as in ours 
the emperor endeavours to instruct his people, in 
theirs, the people endeavour to instruct the admin- 
istration. You must not, however, imagine, that 
they who compile these papers have any actual 
knowledge of the politics, or the government of a 
state ; they only collect their materials from the 
orarle of some cofiec-house ; which oracle lias him- 
self gathered them tho night before from a beau si 



S52 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



a gaming-table, who has pillaged his knowledge 
from a great man's porter, who has had his infor- 
mation from the great man's gentleman, who has 
invented the whole story for his own amusement 
the night preceding. 

The English, in general, seem fonder of gaining 
the esteem than the love of those they converse 
with. This gives a formality to their amusements ; 
their gayest conversations have something too wise 
for innocent relaxation : though in company you 
are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, 
you are seldom lifted into rapture by those strokes 
of vivacity, which give instant, though not perma- 
nent pleasure. 

What they want, however, in gaiety, they make 
up in politeness. You smile at hearing me praise 
the English for their politeness; you who have 
heard very different accounts from the missionaTies 
at Pekin, who have seen such adifferent behaviour 
in their merchants and seamen at home. But I 
must still repeat it, the English seem more polite 
than any of their neighbours : their great art in this 
respect lies in endeavouring, white they oblige, to 
lessen the force of the favour. Other countries are 
fond of obliging a stranger ; but seem desirous that 
he should be sensible of the obligation. The Eng- 



perity, the contending powers of Europe properly 
balanced, desires also to know the precise value of 
every weight in either scale. To gratify this curi- 
osity, a leaf of political instruction is served up 
every morning with tea : when our politician has 
feasted upon this, he repairs to a coffee-house, in 
order to ruminate upon what he has read, and in- 
crease his collection ; from thence he proceeds to 
the ordinary, inquires what news, and, treasuring 
up every acquisition there, hunts about all the 
evening in quest of more, and carefully adds it to 
the rest. Thus at night he retires home, full of 
the important advices of the day : when lo! awaking 
next morning, he finds the instructions of yeterday 
a collection of absurdity or palpable falsehood. 
This one would think a mortifying repulse in the 
pursuit of wisdom ; yet our politician, no way dis- 
couraged, hunts on, in order to collect fresh ma- 
terials, and in order to be again disappointed. 

I have often admired the commercial spirit which 
prevails over Europe ; have been surprised to see 
them carry on a traffic with productions that an 
Asiatic stranger would deem entirely useless. It 
is a proverb in China, that a European suffers not 
even his spittle to be lost ; the maxim, however, is 
not sufficiently strong, since they sell even their 



lish confer their kindness with an appearance of! lies to great advantage. Every nation drives -a 
indifference, and give away benefits with an air as considerable trade in this commodity with their 



" they despised them. 
Walking a few days ago between an English 



neighbours. 
An English dealer in this way, for instance, has 



and a Frenchman into the suburbs of the city, we only to ascend to his workhouse, and manufacture 
were overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. I was ' a turbulent speech, averred to be spoken in the 
unprepared ; but they had each large coats, which ' senate ; or a report supposed to be dropped at court ; 
defended them from what seemed to be a perfect a piece of scandal that strikes at a popular manda- 
inundation. The Englishman, seeing me shrink 'rine; or a secret treaty between two neighbouring 
from the weather, accosted me thus : "Psha, man, ' powers. When finished, these goods are baled up, 
-what dost shrink at ? here, take this coat ; I don't \ and consigned to a factor abroad, who sends in re- 
rwant it; I find it no way useful to me; I had as turn too battles, three sieges, and a shrewd letter 

lief he without it." The Frenchman began to | filled with dashes blanks and stars 

show his politeness in turn. "My dear friend," \ **** of great importance. 

■cries he, "why won't you oblige me by making use \ Thus you perceive, that a single gazette is the 
of my coat? you see how well it defends me /rom 'joint manufacture of Europe; and he who would 
the rain; I should not choose to part with it io' peruse it with a philosophical eye, might perceive 
others, hut to such a friend as you I could even'm every paragraph something characteristic of the 
-part with my skin to do him service. " j nation to which it belongs. A map does not ex- 

From such minute instances as these, most reve- ! hibit a more distinct view of the boundaries and 
rend Fum Hoam, I am sensible your sagacity will situation of every country, than its news does a 

picture of the genius and the morals of its inhabi- 
tants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy of 
Italy, the formality of Spain, the cruelty of Portu- 
gal, the fears of Austria, the confidence of Prussia, 
the levity of France, the avarice of Holland, the 
pride of England, the absurdity of Ireland, and the 
national partiality of Scotland, are all conspicuous 
in every page. 

But, perhaps, you may find more satisfaction in 
a real newspaper, than in my description of one ; I 
passion of this nation for politics. An English- therefore send a specimen, which may serve to ex- 
'man not satisfied with finding, by his own pros- hibit the manner of their being written, and dis- 



collect instruction. The volume of nature is the 
book of knowledge; and he becomes most wise, 
who makes the most judicious selection. Fare- 
well. 



LETTER V. 

To the same. 
I HAVE already informed you of the singular 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



%i 



tinguisli the characters of the various nations which 
are united in its composition. 

Naples. — We have lately dug up here a curious 
Etruscan mormment, broke in two in the raising. 
The characters are scarce visible ; but Lugosi, the 
learned antiquary, supposes it to have been erected 
in honour of Picus, a Latin King, as one of the 
lines may be plainly distinguished to begin with a 
P. It is hoped this discovery will produce some- 
thing valuable, as the literati of our twelve acade- 
mies are deeply engaged in the disquisition, 

Pisa.— Since Father Fudgi, prior of St. Gil- 
bert's, has gone to reside at Rome, no miracles have 
been performed at the shrine of St. Gilbert : the 
devout begin to grow uneasy, and some begin ac- 
tually to fear that St. Gilbert has forsaken tliem- 
with the reverend father. 

Lucca. — The administrators of our serene re- 
public have frequent conferences upon the part 
they shall take in the present commotions of Eu- 
rope. Some are for sending a body of their troops, 
consisting of one company of foot and six horse- 
men, to make a diversion in favour of the empress- 
queen; others are as strenuous assertors of the 
Prussian interest : what turn these debates may 
take, time only can discover. However, certain it 
is, we shall be able to bring into the field, at the 
opening of the next campaign, seventy-five armed 
men, a commander-in-chief, and two drummers of 
great experience. 

Spain. — Yesterday the new king showed him- 
self to his subjects, and, after having staid half an 
hour in his balcony, retired to the royal apartment. 
The night concluded on this extraordinary occasion 
with illuminations, and other demonstrations of joy. 

The queen is more beautiful than the rising sun, 
and reckoned one of the first wits in Europe ; she 
had a glorious opportunity of displaying the readi- 
ness of her invention and her skill in repartee, 
lately at court. The Duke of Lerma coming up 
to her with a low bow and a smile, and presenting 
a nosegay set with diamonds. Madam, cries he, 1 
am your most obedient humble servant. Oh, sir, 
replies the queen, without any prompter, or the 
least hesitation, I'm very -proud of the very great 
honour you do me. Upon which she made a low 
courtesy, and all the courtiers fell a-laughing at the 
readiness and the smartness of her reply. 

Lisbon. — Yesterday we had an aitto da fe, at 
which were burned three young women, accused 
of heresy, one of them of exquisite beauty; two 
Jews, and an old woman, convicted of being a 
witch : one of the friars, who attended this last, re- 
ports, that he saw the devil fly out of her at the 
stake in the shape of a flame of fire. The popu- 
lace behaved on this occasion with great good hu- 
mour, joy, and sincere devotion. 

Our merciful Sovereign has been for some time 
past recovered of his fright : though so atrociOi.4S an 



attempt deserved to extirminate half the nation, yet 
he has been graciously pleased to spare the live* 
of his subjects, and not above five hundred have' 
been broke upon the wheel, or otherwise executed,, 
upon this horrid occasion. 

Vienna. — We have received certainadvices that 
a party of twenty thousand Austrians, having at- 
tacked a much superior body of Prussians, put them 
all to flight, and took the rest prisoners of war. 

Berlin. — We have received certain advices that 
a party of twenty thousand Prussians, having at- 
tacked a much superior body of AustTians, put 
them to flight, and took a great number of prisoners, 
with their military chest, cannon, and baggage. 

Though we have not succeeded this campaign to 
OTir wishes, yet, when we think of him who com- 
niantls us, we rest in security : while we sleep, our' 
king is' Watchful for our safety. 

Paris.— We shall soon strike a signal blow.- 
We have seventeen flat-bottomed boats at Havre. 
The people are in excellent spirits, and our minis- 
ters make no difliculty In raising the supplies. 

We are all undone ; the peofjle are discontented 
to the last degree ; the ministers are obliged to have 
recourse to the most rigorous methods to raise the 
expenses of the war. 

Our distresses are great ; but Madame Pompa- 
dour continues to supply our king, who is now 
growing old, with a fresh lady every night. His 
health, thank Heaven, is still pretty well ; nor is he 
in the least unfit, as was reported, for any kind of 
royal exercitation. He was so frightened at the 
aflfair of Damien, that his physicians were appre- 
hensive lest his reason should suffer; but that 
wretch's tortures soon composed the kingly ter- 
rors of his breast. 

England. — Wanted an usher to an academy.. 
N. B. He must be able to read, dress hair, and. 
must have had the small-pox. 

Dublin. — We hear that there is a benevolent 
subscription on foot among the nobility and gentry 
of this kingdom, who are great patrons of merit, in 
order to assist Black and All Black in his contest 
with the Padderen mare. 

We hear from Germany that Prince Ferdinand 
has gained a complete victory, and taken twelve 
kettle-drums, five standards, and four wagons of 
ammunition, prisoners of war. 

Edinburgh. — We are positive when we say that 
Saunders M'Gregor, who was lately executed for 
horse-stealing, is not a Scotchman, but born in 
Carrickfergus. Farewell. 



LETTER VI. 

Fum Hoam, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at 
Pekin, to Lien Chi Altangi, the Discontented Wanderer; by 
the way of Moscow. 
Whether sporting on the flowery banks of the 

river Irtis, or scaling the steepy mountains of 



254 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Douchenour ; whether traversing the black deserts 
of Kobi, or giving lessons of politeness to the savage 
inhabitants of Europe ; in whatever countr}', what- 
ever climate, anil whatever circumstances, all hail! 
May Tien, the Universal Soul, take you under his 
protection, and inspire you with a superior portion 
•of himself! 

How long, my friend, shall an enthusiasm for 
knowledge continue to obstruct your happiness, 
and tear you from all the connexions that make 
life pleasing 1 How long will you continue to rove 
from climate to climate, circled by thousands, and 
yet without a friend, feeling all the inconveniencies 
of a crowd, and all the anxiety of being alone 7 

I know you reply^ that the refined pleasure of 
growing every day wiser, is a sufficient recompense 
for every inconvenience. I know you will talk of 
the vulgar satisfaction of soliciting happiness from 
sensual enjoyment only ; and probably enlarge up- 
on the exquisite raptures of sentimental bliss. Yet, 
believe me, friend, you are deceived ; all our pleas- 
ures, though seemingly never so remote from sense, 
"derive their origin from some one of the senses. 
The most exquisite demonstration in mathematics, 
or the most pleasing disquisition in metaphysics, il 
it does not ultimately tend to increase some sensual 
satisfaction, is deliglitful oidy to fools, or to men 
■who have by long habit contracted a false idea of 
pleasure ; and he who separates sensual and senti- 
mental enjoyments, seeking happiness irom mind 
alone, is in fact as wretched as the naked inhabitant 
of the forest, who places all happiness in the first, 
regardless of the latter. There are two extremes 
in this respect: the savage, who swallows down the 
draught of pleasure without staying to reflect on 
his happiness ; and the sage, who passeth the cup 
while he reflects on the conveniencies of drink- 
ing. 

It is with a heart full of sorriiw, my dear Altan- 
gi, that I must inform you, that what the world 
calls happiness must now be yours no longer. Our 
great emperor's displeasure at your leaving China, 
contrary to the rules of our government, and the 
immemorial custom of the empire, has produced the 
most terrible effects. Your wife, daughter, and 
the rest of your family, have been seized by his 



surrounding friends, and your master's esteem, it 
has reduced thee to want, persecution, and, still 
worse, to our mighty monarch's displeasure. Want 
of prudence is too frequently the want of virtue ;■ 
nor is there on earth a uiore powerful advocate for 
vice than poverty. As I shall endeavour to guard 
thee from the one, so guard thyself irom the other ; 
and still think of me with affection and esteem. 
Farewell. 



LETTER VII. 

From Lien Ohi Altangi to Fum Hoam, fimt President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pcldn, in China.* 

A WIFE, a daughter, carried into captivity to ex- 
piate my offence ; a son, scarce yet arrived at ma- 
turity, resolving to encounter every danger in the 
pious pursuit of one who has undone him — these 
indeed are circumstances of distress : though my 
tears were more precious than the gem of Golcon- 
da, yet would they fall upon such an occasion. 

But I submit to the stroke of Heaven : 1 hold the 
volume of Confucius in my hand, and, as 1 read, 
grow humble, and patient, and wise. Wo should 
feel sorrow, says he, but not sink under its oppres- 
sion. The heart of a wise man should resemble a 
mirror, which reflects every object without being 
sullied by any. The wheel of fortune turns in- 
cessantly round ; and who can say within himself, 
I shall to-day be uppermost? We should hokl the 
immutable mean that lies between insensibility and 
anguish; our attempts should not be to extinguish 
nature, but to repress it ; not to stand unmoved at 
distress, but endeavour to turn every disaster to our 
own advantage. Our greatest glory is, not in never 
falling, but in rising every time we fall. 

I fancy myself at present, O thou reverend dis- 
ciple of Tao, more than a match for all that can 
happen. The chief business of my life has been, 
to procure wisdom, and the chief object of that 
wisdom was to be happy. My attendance on your 
lectures, my conferences with the missionaries of 
Europe, and all my subsequent adventures upon 
quitting China, were calculated to increase the 
sphere of my happiness, not my curiosity. Let. 



order, and appropriated to his use; all, except jg^^^.^pg^j^ ^^.,^^^1,^,.^ ^.^.^pg g^^s and deserts merely 

your son, are now the peculiar property of him who '^ j^^g^gyj.g ^^^^^ height of a mountain, to describe 

possesses all : him I have hidden from the officers ^^^ cataract of a river, or tell the commodities which 

employed for this purpose; and even at the hazard I ^^^^^.^ ^Q^^^^.y ^^^y produce; merchants or geogra- 

of my life I have concealed him. The youth seems ' ^^^^^^ perhapj, may find profit by such discoveries ; 

obstinately bent on finding you out, wherever you ^^^^^ ^^^^ advantage can accrue to a philosopher 

are ; he is determined to face every danger that op- ^^,^^ ^^^^^ accounts, who is desirous of understand- 

poses his pursuit. Though yet but fifteen, all his -^^ ^j^^ human heart, who seeks to know the men. 

father's virtues and obstinacy sparkle in his eyes, I ° ^ 

and mark him as one destined to no mediocrity of, ,. , . , ■ , ., i ,. .v.., ,i,„ 

•^ ./ • Xlie editor tlnnlis proper to acr|ua\nt the i-eader, that tlio 

fortune. ^ greatest part of the following letter seems to him to be littlcj 

You see, my dearest friend, what imprudence niore than a rhapsody of sentences borrowed from Confucius^ 

has brought thee to : from opulence, a tender family, the Chinese philosopher. 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



255 



of every country, who desires to discover those dif- time I shall find them more opulent, more chari" 



ferenccs which result from climate, religion, cdu 
cation, prejudice, and partiality? 

I should think my time very ill bestowed, were 
the only fruits of my adventures to consist in being 
able to tell, that a tradesman of London lives in a 
house throe times as high as that of our great Em- 
peror ; that the ladies wear longer clothes than the 
men j that the priests are dressed in colours which 
we are taught to detest; and that their soldiers 
wear scarlet, which is with us the symbol of peace 
and innocence. How many travellers are there 
who confine their relations to such minute and use- 
less particulars ! For one who enters into the ge- 
nius of those nations with whom he has conversed ; 
who discloses their morals, their opinions, the ideas 
which they entertain of religious worship, the in- 
trigues of their ministers, and their skill in sciences; 
there are twenty who only mention some idle par- 
ticulars, which can be of no real use to a true phi- 
losopher. All their remarks tend neither to make 
themselves nor others more happy ; they no way 
contribute to control their passions, to bear adver- 
sity, to inspire true virtue, or raise a detestation of 
vice. 

Men may he very learned, and yet very miser 
able ; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sub- 
lime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good 
man. I esteem, therefore, the traveller who in- 
structs the heart, but despise him who only indul- 
ges the imagination. A man who leaves home to 
mend himself and others, is a philosopher; but he 
who goes from country to country, guided by the 
blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond. 
From Zerdusht down to him of Tyanea, 1 honour 
all those great names who endeavour to unite the 
world by their travels : such men grew wiser as 
well as better, the farther they departed from home, 
and seemed like rivers, whose streams are not only 
increased, but refined, as they travel from their 
source. 

For my own part, my greatest glory is, that 
travelling has not more steeled my constitution 
against all the vicissitudes of climate, and all the 
depressions of fatigue, than it has my mind against 
the accidents of fortune, or the access of despair. 
Farewell. 



LETTER VIII. 

To the same. 

How insupportable, O thou possessor of heaven- 
ly wisdom, would be this separation, this immeasur- 
able distance from my friend, were 1 not able thus 
to dehneate my heart upon paper, and to send thee 
daily a map of my mind ! 

I am every day better reconciled to the people 
Simong whom I reside, and begin to fancy, that in 



table, and more hospitable, than I'at first imagined.- 
I begin to learn somewhat of their manners and' 
customs, and to see reasons for several deviations 
which they make from us, from whom all other' 
nations derive their poHteness, as well as their 
original. 

In spite of taste, in spite of prejudice, I now be- 
gin to think their women tolerable. I can now 
look on a languishing blue eye without disgust, and 
pardon a set of teeth, even though whiter than 
ivory. I now begin to fancy there is no universal 
standard for beauty. The truth is, the manners 
of the ladies in this city are so very open, and so' 
vastly engaging, that I am inclined to pass over the ^ 
more glaring defects of their persons, since com-- 
pensated by the more solid, yet latent beauties of 
the mind. What though they want black teeth, 
or are deprived of the allurements of feet no bigger 
than their thumbs, yet still they have souls, my 
riend ; such souls, so free, so pressing, so hospi- 
table, and so engaging. — I have received more in- 
vitations in the streets of London from the sex ia 
one night, than I have met with at Pckin in twelve 
revolutions of the moon. 

Every evening, as I return home from my usual 
solitary excursions, I am met by several of those 
well-disposed daughters of hospitalit}', at difi^erent, 
times, and in different streets, richly dressed, and 
with minds not less noble than their appearance. 
You know that nature has indulged me with a 
person by no means agreeable ; yet are they too 
generous to object to my homely appearance ; they 
feel no repugnance at my broad face and fiat nose ; 
they perceive me to be a stranger, and that alone 
is a suflicient recommendation. They even seem 
to think it their duty to do the honours of the coun- 
try by every act of complaisance in their power.. 
One takes me under the arm, and in a manner 
forces me along; another catches me round the 
neck, and desires to partake in this office of hospi- 
tality; while a third, kinder still, invites me to re- 
fresh my spirits with wine. Wine is in England 
reserved only for the rich : yet here even wine is 
given away to the stranger ! 

A few nights ago, one of these generous crea- 
tures, dressed all in white, and fiauntiiig like a 
meteor by my side, forcibly attended me home to 
my own apartment. She seemed charmed with 
the elegance of the furniture, and the convenience 
of my situation: and well indeed she might, for I 
have hired an apartment for not less than two shil- 
lings of their money every week. But her civility 
did not rest here ; for at parting, being desirous to 
know the hour, and perceiving my watch out of 
order, she kindly took it to be repaired by a rela- 
tion of her own, which you may imagine will save 
some expense; and she assures me, that it will cost 
her nothing. I shall have it back in a few days, 



255 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



when mended, and am preparing a proper speech, 
expressive of my gratitude on the occasion : Ce- 
lestial excellence, I intend to say, happy I am in 
having found out, after many painful adventures, 
a land of innocence, and a people of humanity : I 
may rove into other climes, and converse with na- 
tions yet unknown, hut where shall I meet a soul 
of such purity as thai which resides in thy breast! 
Sure thou hast been nurtured by the bill of the 
Shin Shin, or sucked the breasts of the provident 
Gin Hiung. The melody of thy voice could rob 
the Chong Fou of her whelps, or inveigle the Boh 
that lives in the midst of the waters. Thy ser- 
vant shall ever retain a sense of thy favours ; and 
one day boast of thy virtue, sincerity, and truth, 
among the daughters of China. Adieu. 



LETTER IX.' 

To the Same. 

I HAVE been deceived ! She whom I fancied a 
daughter of paradise, has proved to be one of the 
infamous disciples of Han ! I have lost a trifle : 
I have gained the consolation of having discovered 
a deceiver. I once more, therefore, relax into my 
former indifference with regard to the English la- 
dies ; they once more begin to appear disagreeable 
in my eyes. Thus is my whole time passed in 
forming conclusions which the next minute's ex- 
# perience may probably destroy; the present mo- 
ment becomes a comment on the past, and I improve 
rather in humihty than wisdom. 

Their laws and religion forbid the English to 
keep more than one woman ; I therefore concluded 
that prostitutes were banished from society. I was 
deceived ; every man here keeps as many wives as 
he can maintain : the laws are cemented with 
blood, praised and disregarded. The very Chi- 
nese, whose religion allows him two wives, takes 
not half the liberties of the English in this particu- 
lar. Their laws may be compared to the books of 
the Sibyls ; they are held in great veneration, but 
seldom read, or seldom are understood ; even those 
who pretend to be their guardians, dispute about 
the meaning of many of them, and confess their 
ignorance of others. The law, therefore, which 
commands them to have but one wife, is strictly 
observed only by those for whom one is more than 
sufficient, or by such as have not money to buy 
two. As for the rest, they violate it publicly, and 
some glory in its violation. They seem to think, 
like the Persians, that they give evident marks of 
manhood by increasing their seraglio. A manda- 
rine, therefore, here generally keeps four wives, a 
gentleman three, and a stage-player two. As for 
the magistrates, the country justices and 'squires, 



they are employed first in debauching young vir- 
gins, and then punishing the transgression. 

From such a picture you will be apt to conclude, 
that he who employs four ladies for his amusement, 
has four times as much constitution to spare as he 
who is contented with one ; that a mandarine is 
much cleverer than a gentleman, and a gentleman 
than a player ; and yet it is quite the reverse : a 
mandarine is frequently supported on spindle 
shaidcs, appears emaciated by luxury, and is 
obliged to have recourse to variety, merely from the 
weakness, not the vigour of his constitution, the 
number of his wives being the most equivocal 
symptom of his virility. 

Beside the country 'squire, there is also another 
set of men, whose whole employment consists in 
corrupting beauty ; these, the silly part of the fair 
sex call amiable ; the more sensible part of them, 
however, give them the title of abominable. You 
will probably demand what are the talents of a 
man thus caressed by the majority of the opposite 
sex 7 what talents, or what beauty is he possessed 
of superior to the rest of his fellows 1 To answer 
you directly, he has neither talents nor beauty; but 
then he is possessed of impudence and assiduity. 
With assiduity and impudence, men of all ages, 
and all figures, may commence admirers. I have 
even been told of some who made professions of 
expiring for love, when all the world could perceive 
they were going to die of old age : and what is 
more surprising still, such battered beaux are ge- 
nerally most infamously successful. 

A fellow of this kind employs three hours every 
morning in dressing his head, by which is under- 
stood only his hair. 

He is a professed admirer, not of any particular 
lady, but of the whole sex. 

He is to suppose every lady has caught cold 
every night, which gives him an opportunity of 
calling to see how she does the next morning. 

He is upon all occasions to show himself in very 
great pain for the ladies ; if a lady drops even a 
pin, he is to fly in order to present it. 

He never speaks to a lady without advancing his 
mouth to her ear, by which he frequently addresses 
more senses than one. 

Upon proper occasions, he looks excessively 
tender. This is performed by laying his hand upon 
his heart, shutting his eyes and showing his teeth. 

He is excessively fond of dancing a minuet with 
the ladies, by which is only meant walking round 
the floor eight or ten times with his hat on, affect- 
ing great gravity, and sometimes looking tenderly 
on his partner. 

He never affronts any man himself, and never 
resents an affront from another. 

He has an infinite variety of small talk upon all 
occasions, and laughs when he has nothing more 
to say. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



257 



Such is the killing creature who prostrates him- 
self to the sex till he has undone them : all whose 
submissions are the effects of design, and who to 
please the ladies almost becomes himself a lady, 



LETTER X. 



I HAVE hitherto given you no account of my 
journey from China to Europe, of my travels through 
countries, where nature sports in primeval rudeness, 
where she pours forth her wonders in solitude ; 
countries, from whence the rigorous climate, the 
sweeping inuudation, the drifted desert, the howl- 
ing forrest and mountains of immeasurable height, 
banish the husbandman and spread extensive de- 
solation ; countries, where the brown Tartar wan- 
ders for a precarious subsistence, with a heart that 
never felt pity, himself more hideous than the 
wilderness he makes. 

You will easily conceive the fatigue of crossing 
vast tracts of land, either desolate, or still more 
dangerous by its inhabitants ; the retreat of men 
who seem driven from society, in order to make 
war upon all the human race ; nominally professing 
a subjection to Muscovy or China, but without 
any resemblance to the countries on which they 
depend. 

After I had crossed the great wall, the first ob- 
jects that presented themselves were the remains 
of desolated cities, and all the magnificence of ve- 
nerable ruin. There were to be seen temples of 
beautiful structure, statues wrought by the hand 
of a master, and around, a • country of luxuriant 
plenty ; but not one single inhabitant to reap the 

bounties of nature. These were prospects that 

might humble the pride of kings, and repress hu- 
man vanity. I asked my guide the cause of such 

desolation. These countries, says he, were once 

the dominions of a Tartar Prince ; and these ruins, 

the seat of arts, elegance and ease. This prince 

waged an unsuccessful war with one of the empe- 
rors of China : he was conquered, his cities plun- 
dered, and all his subjects carried into captivity. 

Such are the effects of the ambition of Kings ! 

Ten Dervises, says the Indian Proverb, shall sleep 

in peace upon a single carpet, while two Kings 

is all quarrel, though they have kingdoms to divide 

them. Sure, my friend, the cruelty and the pride 

of man have made more deserts than Nature ever 

made ! she is kind, but man is ungrateful ! 

Proceeding in my journey through this pensive 

scene of desolated beauty, in a few days 1 arrived 

among the Daures, a nation still dependent on 

China, Xaizigar is their principal city, which, 

compared with those of Europe, scarcely deserves 

the name. The governors, and other officers, who I divinity through fear, and attempting "to feed the 



are sent yearly from Pekin, abuse their authority, 
and often take the wives and daughters of the in- 
habitants to themselves. The Daures, accustomed 
to base submission, feel no resentment at those in- 
juries, or stifle what they feel. Custom and ne- 
cessity teach even barbarians the same art of dis- 
simulation that ambition and intrigue inspire in the 
breasts of the polite. Upon beholding such un- 
hcensed stretches of power, alas ! thought I, how 
little does our wise and good emperor know of 
these intolerable exactions ! these provinces are too 
distant for complaint, and too insignificant to ex- 
pect redress. The more distant the government, 
the honester should be the governor to whom it is 
intrusted ; for hope of impunity is a strong induce- 
ment to violation. 

The religion of the Daures is more absurd than 
even that of the sectaries of Fohi. How would 
you be surprised, O sage disciple and follower of 
Confucius ! you who believe one eternal intelligent 
Cause of all, should you be present at the barbarous 
ceremonies of this infatuated people ! How would 
you deplore the blindness and folly of mankind ! 
His boasted reason seems only to light him astray, 
and brutal instinct more regularly points out the 
path to happiness. Could you think it 7 they adore 
a wicked divinity; they fear him and they worship 
him ; they imagine him a mahcious Being, ready 
to injure and ready to be appeased. The men and 
women assemble at midnight in a hut, which serves 
for a temple. A priest stretches himself on the 
ground, and all the people pour forth the most hor- 
rid cries, while drums and timbrels swell the in- 
fernal concert. After tliis dissonance, miscalled 
music, has continued about two hours, the priest 
rises from the ground, assumes an air of inspira- 
tion, grows big with the inspiring demon, and pre- 
tends to a skill m futurity. 

In every country, my friend, the bonzes, the 
brahmins, and the priests, deceive the people : all 
reformations begin from the laity; the priests point 
us out the way to Heaven with tlieir fingers, but 
stand still themselves, nor seem to travel towards 
the country in view. 

The customs of this people correspond to their 
religion ; they keep their dead for three days on the 
same bed where the person died ; after which they 
bury him in a grave moderately deep, but with the 
head still uncovered. Here for several days they 
present him different sorts of meats ; which when 
they perceive he does not consume, they fill up the 
grave, and desist from desiring him to eat for the 
future. How, how can mankind be guilty of such 
strange absurdity"? to entreat a dead body, already 
putrid, to partake of the banquet ! Where, I again 
repeat it, is human reason? not only some men, 
but whole nations, seem divested of its illumina- 
tion. Here we observe a whole country adoring a 



258 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



dead. These are their most serious and most re- 
ligious occupations ; are these men rational, or are 
not the apes of Borneo more wisel 

Certain I am, O thou instructor of my youth! 
that without philosophers, without some few vir- 
tuous men, who seem to be of a different nature 
from the rest of mankind, without such as these, 
the worship of a wicked divinity would surely be 
established over every part of the earth. Fear 
guides more to their duty than gratit\ide: for one 
man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from 
the obligation that he thinks he lies under to the 
Giver of all, there are ten thousand who are good 
nnly from the apprehensions of punishment. Could 
these last be persuaded, as the Epicureans were, 
that Heaven had no thunders in store for the vil- 
lain, they would no longer continue to acknowledge 
subordination, or thank that Being who gave them 
existence. Adieu. 



LETTER XL 



From such a picture of nature in primeval sim- 
plicity, tell me, my much respected friend, are you 
in love with fatigue and sohtude ! Do you sigh for 
the severe frugality of the wandering Tartar, or 
regret being born amidst the luxury and dissimula- 
tion of the polite! Rather tell me, has not every 
kind of life vices peculiarly its own 7 Is it not a 
truth, that refined countries have more vices, but 
those not so terrible ; barbarous nations few, and 
they of the most hideous complexion 7 Perfidy and 
fraud are the vices of civiUzed nations, credulity 
and violence those of the inhabitants of the desert. 
Does the luxury of the one produce half the evils 
of the inhumanity of the other! Certainty, those 
philosophers who declaim against luxury have but 
little understood its benefits; they seem insensible, 
that to luxury we owe not only the greatest part of 
our knowledge, but even of our virtues. 

It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaimer, 
when he talks of subduing our appetites, of teach- 
ing every sense to be content with a bare sufficiency, 
and of supplying only the wants of nature ; hut is 
there not more satisfaction in indulging those ap- 
petites, if with innocence and safety, than in re- 
straining themi Am not I better pleased in en- 
joyment, than in the sullen satisfaction of thinking 
that 1 can Uve without enjoyment 1 The more 
various our artificial necessities, the wider is our 
circle of pleasure ; for all pleasure consists in obvi- 
ating necessities as they rise : luxury, therefore, as 
it increases our wants, increases our capacity for 
happiness. 

Examine the history of any country remarkable 
for opulence and wisdom, you will find they would 



never have been wise had they not been first luxu- 
rious : you will find poets, philosophers, and even 
patriots, marching in luxury's train. The reason 
is obvious : we then only are curious after know- 
ledge, when we find it connected with sensual hap- 
piness. The senses ever point out the way, and 
reflection comments upon the discovery. Inform 
a native of the desert of Kobi, of the exact measure 
of the parallax of the moon, he finds no satisfac- 
tion at all in the information ; he wonders how any 
could take such pains, and lay out such treasures, 
in order to solve so useless a difficulty : but connect 
it with his happiness, by showing that it improves 
navigation, that by such an investigation he may 
have a warmer coat, a better gun, or a finer knife, 
and he is instantly in raptures at so great an im- 
provement. In short, we only desire to know what 
we desire to possess; and whatever we may talk- 
against it, luxury adds the spur to curiosity, and 
gives us a desire of becoming more wise. 

But not our knowledge only, but our virtues are 
improved by luxury. Observe the brown savage 
of Thibet, to whom the fruits of the spreading 
pomegranate supply food, and its branches a habi- 
tation. Such a character has few vices, I grant, 
but those he has are of the most hideous nature : 
rapine and cruelty are scarcely crimes in his 
eye ; neither pity nor tenderness, which ennoble 
every virtue, have any place in his heart ; he hates 
his enemies, and kills those he subdues. On the 
other hand, the polite Chinese and civilized Euro- 
pean seem even to love their enemies. I have just 
now seen an instance where the English have suc- 
coured those enemies whom their own countrymen 
actually refused to relieve. 

The greater the luxuries of every country, the 
more closely, politically speaking, is that country 
united. Luxury is the child of society alone ; the 
luxurious man stands in need of a thousand differ- 
ent artists to furnish out his happiness : it is more 
likely, therefore, that he should bs a good citizen 
who is connected by motives of self-interest with 
so manj', than the abstemious man who is united 
to none. 

In whatsoever light, therefore, we consider luxu- 
ry, whether as employing a number of hands, 
naturally too feeble for more laborious employment; 
as finding a variety of occupation for others who 
might be totally idle; or as furnishing out new in- 
lets to happiness, without encroaching on mutual 
property; in whatever light we regard it, we shall 
have reason to stand up in its defence, and the sen- 
timent of Confucius still remains unshaken, That 
we should enjoy as many of the luxuries of life as 
are consistent with our own safety, and the pros- 
perity of others ; and that he who finds out a new 
pleasure is one of the most useful members of sO' 
ciety. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



259 



LETTER Xn. 



To the same. 



From the funeral solemnities of the Daures, who 
think themselves the politest people in the world, 
I must make a transition to the funeral solemnities 
of the EngUsh, who think themselves as polite as 
they. The numberless ceremonies which are used 
here when a person is sick, appear to me so many 
evident marks of fear and apprehension. Ask an 
Englishman, however, whether he is afraid of 
death, and he boldly answers in the negative ; but 
observe his behaviour in circumstances of approach- 
ing sickness, and you will find his actions give his 
assertions the he. 

The Chinese are very sincere in this respect; 
they hate to die, and they confess their terrors ; a 
great part of their life is spent in preparing things 
proper for their funeral. A poor artisan shall spend 
half his income in providing himself a tomb twenty 
years before he wants it; and denies himself the 
necessaries of life, that he may be amply provided 
for when he shall want them no more. 

But people of distinction in England really de- 
serve pity, for they die in circumstances of the most 
extreme distress. It is an estabUshed rule, never 
to let a man know that he is dying : physicians are 
sent for, the clergy are called, and every thing 
passes in silent solemnity round the sick bed. The 
patient is in agonies, looks round for pity, yet not 
a single creature wiU say that he is dying. If he 
is possessed of fortune, his relations entreat him to 
make his will, as it may restore the tranquillity of 
his mind. He is desired to undergo the rites of the 
church, for decency requires it. His friends take 
their leave only because they do not care to see him 
in pain. In short, a hundred stratagems are used 
to make him do what he might have been induced 
to perform only by being told. Sir, you arepast all 
hopes, and had as good think decently of dying. 
Besides all this, the chamber is darkened, the 
whole house echoes to the cries of the wife, the 
lamentations of the children, the grief of the ser- 
vants, and the sighs of friends. The bed is sur- 
rounded with priests and doctors in black, and only 
flambeaux, emit a yellow gloom. Where is the 
man, how intrepid soever, that would not shrink 
at such a hideous solemnity 7 For fear of affright- 
ing their expiring friends, the English practise all 
that can fill them with terror. Strange effect of 
human prejudice, thus to torture, merely from mis- 
taken tenderness! 

You see, my friend, what contradictions there 
are in the tempers of those islanders : when prompt- 
ed by ambition, revenge, or disappointment, they 
meet death with the utmost resolution : the very 
man who in his bed would have trembled at the 
aspect of a doctor, shall go with intrepidity to at- 



tack a bastion, or dehberately noose himself up in 
his garters. 

The passion of the Europeans for magnificent 
interments, is equally strong with that of the Chi- 
nese. When a tradesman dies, his frightful face 
is painted up by an undertaker, and placed in a 
proper situation to receive company : this is called 
lying in state. To this disagreeable spectacle, all 
the idlers in town flock, and learn to loath the 
wretch dead, whom they despised when hving. In 
this manner, you see some who would have refused 
a shilling to save the life of their dearest friend, 
bestow thousands on adorning their putrid corpse. 
I have been told of a fellow, who, grown rich by 
the price of blood, left it in his wiU that he should 
he in state ; and thus unknowingly gibbeted himself 
into infamy, when he might have, otherwise, quietly 
retired into oblivion. 

When the person is buried, the next care is to 
make his epitaph: they are generally reckoned best 
which flatter most; such relations, therefore, as 
have received most benefits from the defunct, dis- 
charge this friendly office, and generally flatter in 
proportion to their joy. When we read those 
monumental histories of the dead, it may be just- 
ly said, that all men are equal in the dust; for, 
they all appear equally remarkable for being the 
most sincere Christians, the most benevolent neigh- 
bours, and the honestest men of their time. To 
go through a European cemetery, one would be 
apt to wonder how mankind could have so basely 
degenerated from such excellent ancestors. Every 
tomb pretends to claim your reverence and regret : 
some are praised for piety in those inscriptions, 
who never entered the temple until they were dead ; 
some are praised for being excellent poets, who 
were never mentioned, except for their dulness, 
when living ; others for sublime orators, who were 
never noted except for their impudence ; and others 
still, for military achievements, who were never 
in any other skirmishes but with the watch. Some 
even make epitaphs for themselves, and bespeak 
the reader's good-will. It were indeed to be wish- 
ed, that every man would early learn in this man- 
ner to make his own ; that he would draw it up in 
terms as flattering as possible, and that he would 
make it the employment of his whole hfe to de- 
serve it. 

I have not yet been in a place called Westmin- 
ister Abbey, but soon intend to visit it. There, I 
am told, I shall see justice done to deceased merit: 
none, I am told, are permitted to be buried there, 
but such as have adorned as well as improved man- 
kind. There, no intruders, by the influence of 
friends or fortune, presume to mix their unhallow- 
ed ashes vsdth philosophers, heroes, and poets. No- 
thing but true merit has a place in that awful sanc- 
tuary. The guardianship of the tombs is commit- 
ted to several reverend priests, who are never guilty, 



260 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



for a superior reward, of taking down the names of 
good men, to make room for others of equivocal 
character, nor ever profane the sacred walls with 
pageants that posterity can not know, or shall blush 
to own. 

I always was of opinion, that sepulchral ho- 
nours of this kind should be considered as a na- 
tional concern, and not trusted to the care of the 
priests of any country, how respectable soever ; but 
from the conduct of the reverend personages, whose 
disinterested patriotism I shall shortly be able to 
discover, I am taught to retract my former senti- 
ments. It is true, the Spartans and the Persians 
made a fine poUtical use of sepulchral vanity ; they 
permitted none to be thus interred, who had not 
fallen in the vindication of their country. A monu- 
ment thus became a real mark of distinction ; it 
nerved the hero's arm with tenfold vigour, and he 
fought without fear who only fought for a grave. 
Farewell. 



LETTER XIIL 

From the Same. 

I AM just returned from Westminster Abbey, 
the place of sepulture for the philosophers, heroes, 
and kings of England. What a gloom do monu- 
mental inscriptions, and all the venerable remains 
of deceased merit, inspire! Imagine a temple 
marked with the hand of antiquity, solemn as reli- 
gious awe, adorned with all the magnificence of 
barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pillars, 
long colonades, and dark ceilings. Think, then, 
what were my sensations at being introduced to 
such a scene. I stood in the midst of the temple, 
and threw ray eyes round on the walls, filled with 
the statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments of 
the dead. 

Alas ! I said to myself, how does pride attend 
the puny child of dust even to the grave ! Even 
humble as I am, I possess more consequence in the 
present scene than the greatest hero of them all : 
they have toiled for an hour to gain a transient im- 
mortality, and are at length retired to the grave, 
where they have no attendant but the worm, none 
to flatter but the epitaph. 

As I was indulging such reflections, a gentleman 
dressed in black, perceiving me to be a stranger, 
came up, entered into conversation, and politely 
offered to be my instructor and guide through the 
temple. If any monument, said he, should par- 
ticularly excite your curiosity, I shall endeavour to 
satisfy your demands. I accepted with thanks the 
gentleman's offer, adding, that "I was come toob 
serve the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the 
English, in conferring rewards tipon deceased 
merit. If adulation like this (continued I) be pro- 
perly conducted, as it can no ways injure those who 



are flattered, so it may be a glorious incentive to 
those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is the 
duty of every good government to turn this monu- 
mental pride to its own advantage ; to become 
strong in the aggregate from the weakness of the 
individual. If none but the truly great have a 
place in this awful repository, a temple like this 
will give the finest lessons of morality, and be a 
strong incentive to true ambition. I am told, that 
none have a place here but characters of the most 
distinguished merit." The man in black seemed 
impatient at my observations, so I discontinued my 
remarks, and we walked on together to take a view 
of every particular monument in order as it lay. 

As the eye is naturally caught by the finest ob- 
jects, I could not avoid being particularly curious 
about one monument, which appeared more beau- 
tifiU than tbe rest : that, said I to my guide, I take 
to be the tomb of some very great man. By the 
peculiar excellence of the workmanship, and the 
magnificence ef the design, this must be a trophy 
raised to the memory of some king, who has saved 
his country from ruin, or lawgiver who has re- 
duced his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just 
subjection. It is not requisite, replied my com- 
panion, smiling, to have such qualifications in 
order to have a very fine monument here. More 
humble abilities will suffice. What ! I sivpposCj 
then, the gaining two or three battles, or the taking 
half a score of towns, is thought a sufficint quali- 
fication 7 Gaining battles, or taking towns, re- 
plied the man in black, may be of service ; but a 
gentleman may have a very fine monument here 
without ever seeing a battle or a siege. This, 
then, is the monument of some poet, I presume, of 
one whose wit has gained him immortality ? No, 
sir, replied my guide, the gentleman who lies here 
never made verses ; and as for wit, he despised it 
in others, because he had none himself. Pray tell 
me then in a word, said I peevishly, what is the 
great man who lies here particularly remarkable 
for ? Remarkable, sir ! said my companion ; why 
sir, the gentleman that hes here is remarkable, 
very remarkable — for a tomb in Westminster Ab- 
bey. Hut, head my ancestors ! hoic has he got 
here ? I fancy he could never bribe the guardians 
of the temple to give him a place. Should he not 
be ashamed to be seen among company, where even 
moderate merit would look like irfamy 7 I sup- 
pose, replied the man in black, the gentleman was 
rich, and his friends, as is usual in such a case, 
told him he was great. He readily believed them ; 
the guardians of the temple, as they got by the 
self-delusion, were ready to believe him too ; so he 
paid his money for a fine monument ; and the 
workman, as you see, has made him one the 
most beautiful. Think not, however, that this 
gentleman is singular in his desire of being buried 
among the great ; there are several others in the 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



261 



temple, who, hated and shunned by the great while 
alive, have come here, fully resolved to keep them 
company now they are dead. 

As we walked along to a particular part of the 
temple, There, says the gentleman, pointing with 
his finger, that is the poet's corner ; there you see 
the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, and 
Prior, and Drayton. Drayton ! 1 replied ; I never 
heard of him before : but I have been told of one 
Pope ; is he there ? It is time enough, replied my 
guide, these hundred years ; he is not long dead ; 
people have not done hating him yet. Strange, 
cried I, can any be found to hate a man, whose life 
was wholly spent in entertaining and instructing 
Ids fellow-creatures 7 Yes, says my guide, they 
hate him for that very reason. There are a set of 
men called answerers of books, who take upon them 
to watch the republic of letters, and distribute re- 
putation by the sheet ; they somewhat resemble the 
eunuchs in a seraglio, who are incapable of giving 
pleasure themselves, and hinder those that would. 
These answerers have no other employment but 
to cry out Dunce, and Scribbler ; to praise the 
dead, and revile the living ; to grant a man of con- 
fessed abilities some small share of merit ; to ap- 
plaud twenty blockheads in order to gain the repu- 
tion of candour; and to revile the moral character 
of the man whose writings they can not injure. 
Such wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary 
bookseller, or more frequently the bookseller him- 
self takes this dirty work off their hands, as aU that 
is required is to be very abusive and very dull. 
Every poet of any genius is sure to find such ene- 
mies ; he feels, though he seen"vs to despise, their 
malice ; they make him miserable here, and in the 
pursuit of empty fame, at last he gains solid anxi- 
ety. 

Has this been the case with every poet I see here ? 
cried I. — Yes, with every mother's son of them, 
replied he, except he happened to be born a man- 
darine. If he has much money, he may buy repu- 
tation from your book-answerers, as well as a menu 
ment from the guardians of the temple. 

Sut are there not some men of distinguished 
taste, as in China, who are willing to patronise 
'men of merit, and soften the rancour of malevo- 
lent dulness? 

I own there are many, replied the man in black; 
but, alas ! sir, the book-answerers crowd about 
them, and call themselves the writers of books ; and 
the patron is too indolent to distinguish : thus poets 
are kept at a distance, while their enemies eat up 
all their rewards at the mandarine's table. 

Lea\ing this part of the temple, we made up to 
an iron gate, through which my companion told 
me we were to pass in order to see the monuments 
of the kings. Accordingly I marched up without 
further ceremony, and was going to enter, when a 
person, who held the gate in his hand, told me I 



must pay first. I was surprised at such a demand ; 
and asked the man, whether the people of England 
kept a show ? whether the paltry sum he demanded 
was not a national reproach 1 whether it was not 
more to the honour of the country to let their mag- 
nificence or their antiquities be openly seen, than 
thus meanly to tax a curiosity which tended to 
their own honour? As for your questions, replied 
the gate-keeper, to be sure they may be very right, 
because I don't understand them; but, as for that 
there threepence, I farm it from one, — who rents 
it from another, — who hires it from a third, — who 
leases it from the guardians of the temple, and we 
all must live. I expected, upon paying here, to see 
something extraordinary, since what I had seen for 
nothing filled me with so much surprise : but in 
this I was disappointed; there was little more 
within than black coflins, rusty armour, tattered 
standards, and some few slovenly figures in wax. 
I was sorry I had paid, but I comforted myself by 
considering it would be my last payment. A per- 
son attended us, who, without once blushing, told 
a hundred lies : he talked of a lady who died by 
pricking her finger ; of a king with a golden head, 
and twenty such pieces of absurdity. Look ye 
there, gentlemen, says he, pointing to an old oak 
chair, there's a curiosity for ye ; in that chair the 
kings of England were crowned : you see also a 
stone underneath, and that stone is Jacob's pillow. 
I could see no curiosity either in the oak chair or 
the stone : could I, indeed, behold one of the old 
kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head 
laid upon the other, there might be something cu- 
rious in the sight ; but in the present case there was 
no more reason for my surprise, than if I should 
pick a stone from their streets, and call it a curiosi- 
ty, merely because one of the kings happened to 
tread upon it as he passed in a procession. 

From hence our conductor led us through several 
dark walks and winding ways, uttering lies, talking 
to himself, and flourishing a wand which he held 
in his hand. He reminded me of the black magi- 
cians of Kobi. After we had been almost fatigued 
with a variety of objects, he at last desired me to 
consider attentively a certain suit of armour, which 
seemed to show nothing remarkable. This ar- 
diour, said he, belonged to General Monk. Very 
surprising that a general should wear armour! 
And pray, added he, observe this cap, this is Gene- 
ral Monk's cap. Very strange indeed, very 
strange, that a general should have a cap also ! 
Pray, friend, ichat might this cap have cost ori- 
ginally? That, sir, says he, I don't know; but this 
cap is all the wages I have for my trouble. A very 
small recompense truly, said I. Not so very small, 
rephed he, for every gentleman puts some money 
into it, and I spend the money. WJiat, viore mo- 
ney! still more money! Every gentleman gives 
something, sir. I'll give thee nothing, returned I ; 



262 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the guardians of the temple should pay you your 
wages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus 
from every spectator. When we pay our money 
at the door to see a show, we never give more as 
we are going out. Sure, the guardians of the tem- 
ple can never think they get enough. Show me 
the gate ; if I stay longer, I may probably meet with 
more of those ecclesiastical beggars. 

Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I returned 
to my lodgings, in order to ruminate over what was 
great, and to despise what was mean in the occur- 
rences of the day. 



LETTER XIV. 



From the Same. 



I WAS some days ago agreeably surprised by a 
message from a lady of distinction, who sent me 
word, that she most passionately desired the plea- 
sure of my acquaintance; and, with the utmost 
impatience, expected an interview. I will not deny, 
my dear Fum Hoam, but that my vanity was raised 
at such an invitation : I flattered myself that she 
had seen me in some public place, and had con- 
ceived an affection for ray person, which thus in- 
duced her to deviate from the usual decorums of 
the sex. My imagination painted her in all the 
bloom of youth and beauty. I fancied her attended 
by the Loves and Graces ; and I set out with the 
most pleasing expectations of seeing the conquest 
I had made. 

When I was introduced into her apartment, my 
expectations were quickly at an end ; I perceived 
a little shrivelled figure indolently reclined on a 
sofa, who nodded by way of approbation at my ap- 
proach. This, as I was afterwards informed, was 
the lady herself, a woman equally distinguished for 
rank, politeness, taste, and understanding. As I 
was dressed after the fashion of Europe, she had 
taken me for an Englishman, and consequently sa- 
luted me in her ordinary manner : but when the 
footman informed her grace that I was the gentle- 
man from China, she instantly lifted herself from 
the couch, while her eyes sparkled with unusual 
vivacity. " Bless me ! can this be the gentleman 
that was born so far from home 1 What an unu- 
sual share of somethingness in his whole appear- 
ance ! Lord, how I am charmed with the outlandish 
cut of his face ! how bewitching the exotic breadth 
of his forehead! I would give the world to see him 
in his own country dress. Pray turn about, sir, 
and let me see you behind. There, there's a tra- 
vel!' d air for you ! You that attend there, bring up 
a plate of beef cut into small pieces ; I have a violent 
passion to see him eat. Pray, sir, have you got 
your chop-sticks about you? It will be so pretty to 
see the meat carried to the mouth with a jerk. 



Pray speak a little Chinese : I have learned some 
of the language myself. Lord! have you nothing 
pretty from China about you ; something that one 
does not know what to do with ? I have got twenty 
things from China that are of no use in the world. 
Look at those jars, they are of the right pea-green: 
these are the furniture." Dear madam, said I, 
these, though they may appear fine in your eyes, 
are hut paltry to a Chinese ; but, as they are use- 
ful utensils, it is proper they should have a place 
in every apartment. Useful ! sir, replied the lady; 
sure you mistake, they are of no use in the world. 
What! are they not filled with an infusion of tea 
as in China? replied I. Gluite empty and useless, 
upon my honour, sir. Then they are the most 
cumbrous and clumsy furniture in the world, as 
nothing is truly elegant but what unites use with 
beauty. I protest, says the lady, I shall begin to 
suspect thee of being an actual barbarian. I sup- 
pose you hold my two beautiful pagods in con- 
tempt. What ! cried I, has Fohi spread his gross 
superstitions here also ! Pagods of all kinds are 
my aversion. A Chinese traveller, and want taste! 
it surprises me. Pray, sir, examine the beauties 
of that Chinese temple which you see at the end 
of the garden. Is there any thing in China more 
beautiful? WJiere I stand, I see nothing, madam, 
at the end of the garden, that may not as well be 
called an Egyptian pyramid as a Chinese tem- 
ple ; for that little building in view is as like the 
one as t'other. What ! sir, is not that a Chinese 
temple ? you must surely be mistaken. Mr. Freeze, 
who designed it, calls it one, and nobody disputes 
his pretensions to taste. I now found it vain to 
contradict the lady in any thing she thought fit to 
advance ; so was resolved rather to act the disciple 
than the instructor. She took me through several 
rooms all furnished, as she told me, in the Chinese 
manner ; sprawhng dragons, squatting pagods, and 
clumsy mandarines, were stuck upon every shelf: 
in turning round, one must have used caution not 
to demolish a part of the precarious furniture. 

In a house like this, thought I, one must live 
continually upon the watch ; the inhabitant must re- 
semble a knight in an enchanted castle, who ex- 
pects to meet an adventure at every turning. But, 
madam, said I, do not accidents ever happen to all 
this finery ? Man, sir, replied the lady, is born to 
misfortunes, and it is but fit I should have a share. 
Three weeks ago, a careless servant snapped off 
the head of a favourite mandarine : I had scarce 
done grieving for that, when a monkey broke a 
beautiful jar ; tliis I took the more to heart, as the 
injury was done me by a friend ! However, I sur- 
vived the calamity; when yesterday crash went 
half a dozen dragons upon the marble hearthstone : 
and yet I live ; I survive it all : you can't conceive 
what comfort I find under afilictions from philoso- 
phy. There is Seneca and Bolingbroke, and somo 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



2fi3 



others, who guide me through Hfe, and teach me to 
support its calamities. — I could not but smile at a 
woman who makes her own misfortunes, and then 
deplores the miseries of her situation. Wherefore, 
tired of acting with dissimulation, and willing to 
indulge my meditations in solitude, I took leave just 
as the servant was bringing in a plate of beef, pur- 
suant to the directions of his mistress. Adieu. 



LETTER XV 



From the same. 



The better sort here pretend to the utmost com- 
passion for animals of every kind : to hear them 
speak, a stranger would be apt to imagine they 
could hardly hurt the gnat that stung them; they 
seem so tender and so full of pity, that one would 
take them for the harmless friends of the whole 
creation ; the protectors of the meanest insect or 
reptile that was privileged with existence. And 
yet (would you believe it 1) I have seen the very 
men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, at 
the same time devouring the flesh of six different 
animals tossed up in a fricassee. Strange contra- 
riety of conduct! they pity, and they eat the ob- 
jects of their compassion ! The lion roars with ter- 
ror over its captive ; the tiger sends forth its hideous 
shriek to intimidate its prey; no creature shows 
any fondness for its short-lived prisoner, except a 
man and a cat. 

Man was born to live with innocence and sim- 
plicity, but he has deviated from nature; he was 
born to share the bounties of heaven, but he has 
monopolized them ; he was born to govern the brute 
creation, but he is become their tyrant. If an epi- 
cure now shall happen to surfeit on his last night's 
feast, twenty animals the next day are to undergo 
the most exquisite tortures, in order to provoke his 
appetite to another guilty meal. Hail, O ye simple, 
honest brahmins of the East; ye inoffensive friends 
of all that were born to happiness as well as you; 
you never sought a short-lived pleasure from the 
miseries of other creatures ! You never studied the 
tormenting arts of ingenious refinement; you never 
surfeited upon a guUty meal! How much more purifi- 
ed and refined are all your sensations than ours! you 
distinguish every element with the utmost precision; 
a stream imtasted before is new luxury, a change 
of air is a new banquet, too refined for Western 
imaginations to conceive. 

Though the European* do not hold the transmi- 
gration of souls, yet one of their doctors has, vnth 
great force of argument, and great plausibility of 
reasoning, endeavoured to prove, that the bodies 



punishment ; but are previously condemned to suf- 
fer all the pains and hardships inflicted upon them 
by man, or by each other, here. If this be the case, 
it may frequently happen, that while we whip pigs 
to death, or boil Uve lobsters, we are putting some 
old acquaintance, some near relation, to excruciat- 
ing tortures, and are serving him up to the very table 
where he was once the most welcome companion. 
"Kabul," gays the Zendevesta, "was born on 
the rushy banks of the river Mawra ; his posses- 
sions were great, and his luxuries kept pace with 
the afiiuence of his fortune ; he hated the harmless 
brahmins, and despised their holy religion ; every 
day his table was decked out with the flesh of a 
hundred different animals, and his cooks had a 
hundred different ways of dressing it, to solicit even 
satiety. 

" Notwdthstanding all his eating, he did not ar- 
rive at old age ; he died of a surfeit, caused by in- 
temperance : upon this, his soul was carried off, in 
order to take its trial before a select assembly of 
the souls of those animals which his gluttony had 
caused to be slain, and who were now appointed 
his judges. 

" He trembled before a tribmial, to every mem- 
ber of which he had formerly acted as an unmer- 
ciful tyrant ; he sought for pity, but found none 
disposed to grant it. Does he not remember, cries 
the angry boar, to what agonies I was put, liot to 
satisfy his hunger, but his vanity? I was first 
hunted to death, and my flesh scarce thought wor- 
thy of coming once to his table. Were my advice 
followed, he should do penance in the shape of a 
hog, which in hfe he most resembled. 

" I am rather, cries a sheep upon the bench, for 
having him suffer under the appearance of a lamb ; 
we may then send him through four or five trans- 
migrations in the space of a month. Were ray 
voice of any weight in the assembly, cries a cal^ 
he should rather assume such a form as mine ; 1 
was bled every day, in order to make my flesh 
white, and at last killed without mercy. Would it 
not be wiser, cries a hen, to cram him in the shape 
of a fowl, and then smother liim in his own blood, 
as I was served? The majority of the assembly 
were pleased with this punishment, and were go- 
ing to condemn him without further delay, when 
the ox rose up to give his opinion : I am informed, 
says this counsellor, that the prisoner at the bar 
has left a wife with chUd behind him. By my know- 
ledge in divination, I foresee that this child will be 
a son, decrepit, feeble, sickly, a plague to himself, 
and all about him. What say you, then, my com- 
panions, if we condemn the father to animate the 
body of his own son ; and by this means make him 
feel in himself those miseries his intemperance must 
otherwise have entailed upon his posterity? The 



of animals are the habitations of demons and wicked 

spirits, which are obliged to reside in these prisons ' whole court applauded the ingenuity of his torture; 

till the resun-ection pronounces their everlasting they thanked him for his advice. Kabul was 



264 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



driven once more to revisit the earth; and his soul 
in the body of his own son, passed a period of thirty 
years, loaded with misery, anxiety, and disease." 



LETTER XVI. 



From the same. 



I KNOW not whether I am more oUiged to the 
Chinese missionaries for the instruction I have 
received from them, or prejudiced by the falsehoods 
they have made me believe. By them I was told 
that the Pope was universally allowed to be a man, 
and placed at the head of the church ; in England, 
however, they plainly prove him to be a whore in 
man's clothes, and often burn him in effigy as an 
impostor. A thousand hooks have been written 
on either side of the question : priests are eternally 
disputing against each other; and those mouths 
that want argument are filled with abuse. Which 
party must I believe, or shall 1 give credit to nei 
ther? When I survey the absurdities and false 
hoods TOth which the books of the Europeans are 
filled, I thank Heaven for having been born in 
China, and that I have sagacity enough to detect 
imposture. 

The Europeans reproach us with false history 
and fabulous chronology : how should they blush 
to see their own books, many of which are written 
by the doctors of their religion, filled with the most 
monstrous fables, and attested with the utmost 
solemnity. The bounds of a letter do not permit 
me to mention all the absurdities of this kind, 
which in my reading I have met with. I shall 
confine myself to the accounts which some of their 
lettered men give of the persons of some of the in- 
habitants on our globe : and not satisfied wdth the 
most solemn asseverations, they sometimes pre- 
tend to have been eye-witnesses of what they de- 
scribe. 

A Christian doctor, in one of his principal per- 
formances,* says, that it was not impossible for a 
whole nation to have but one eye in the middle of 
the forehead. He is not satisfied with leaving it 
in doubt; but in another work,+ assures us, that 
the fact was certain, and that he himself was an 
eye-witness of it. When, says he, / took a journey 
into Ethiopia, in company with several other ser- 
vants of Christ, in order to preach the gospel there, 
I beheld, in the southern provinces of that country, 
a nation which had only one eye in the midst of 
their foreheads. 

You will no doubt be surprised, reverend Fum, 
with this author's eifrontery ; but, alas ! he is not 
alone in this story : he has only borrowed it from 
several others who wrote before him. Solinus 



' Augustin. de Civit. Dei, lib. xvi. p. 422. 

t Auguatin. ad fratres in Eremo, Serm. xxxvii. 



creates another nation of Cyclops, the Arimaspians, 
who inhabit those countries that border on the 
Caspian Sea. This author goes on to tell us of a 
people of India, who have but one leg and one eye, 
and yet are extremely active, run with great swift- 
ness, and live by hunting. These people we 
scarcely know how to pity or admire : but the men 
whom Phny calls Cynamolci, who have got the 
heads of dogs, really deserve our compassion; in- 
stead of language, they express their sentiments 
by barking. Sohnus confirms what Pliny men- 
tions ; and Simon Mayole, a French bishop, talks 
of them as of particular and familiar acquaintances. 
After passing the deserts of Egypt, says he, we 
meet with the Kunokephaloi, who inhabit those 
regions that border on Ethiopia ; they live by 
hxinting; they cannot speak, hut whistle; their 
chins resemble a serpent's head; their hands are 
armed with long sharp claws ; their breast resem- 
bles that of a greyhound ; and they excel in stoiff- 
ness and agility. Would you think it, my friend, 
that these odd kind of people are, notwithstanding 
their figure, excessively delicate; not even an alder- 
man's wife, or Chinese mandarine, can excel them 
in this particular. These people, continues our 
faithful bishop, never refuse wine ; love roast and 
boiled meat: they are particularly curious in hav- 
ing their meat well dressed, and spurn at it if in 
the least tainted. When the Ptolemies reigned 
in Egypt (says he a little farther on) those men 
with dogs' heads tdught grammar and music. 
For men who had no voices to teach music, and 
who could not speak, to teach grammar, is, I con- 
fess, a little extraordinary. Did ever the disciples 
of Fohi broach any thing more ridiculous'? 

Hitherto we have seen men with heads strange- 
ly deformed, and with dogs' heads ; but what would 
you say if you heard of men without any heads at all"? 
Pomponius Mela, Solinus, and Aulus Gellius, de- 
scribe them to our hand: "The Blemise have a 
nose, eyes, and mouth on their breasts ; or, as others 
will have it, placed on their shoulders." 

One would think that these authors had an an- 
tipathy to the human form, and were resolved to 
make a new figure of their own : but let us do them 
justice. Though they sometimes deprive us of a 
leg, an arm, a head, or some such trifling part of 
the body, they often as liberally bestow upon us 
something that we wanted before. " Simon Mayole 
seems our particular friend in this respect ; if he has 
denied heads to one part of mankind, he has given 
tails to another. He describes many of the Eng- 
lish of his time, which is not more than a hundred 
years ago, as having tails. His own words are as 
follow : In England there are some families which 
have tails, as a punishnnent for deriding an Au- 
gustin friar sent by St. Gregory, and who preach- 
ed in Dorsetshire. They sewed the tails of differ- 
ent animals to his clothes; but soon they found 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



265 



that those tails entailed on them and their posteri- 
ty for ever. It is certain that the author had some 
ground for this description. Many of the English 
wear tails to their wigs to this very day, as a mark, 
I suppose, of the antiquity of their families, and 
perhaps as a symbol of those tails with which they 
were formerly distinguished by nature. 

You see, my friend, there is nothing so ridicu- 
lous that has not at some time been said by some 
philosopher. The writers of booksin Europe seem 
to think themselves authorL^ed to say what they 
please; and an ingenious philosopher among them* 
has openly asserted, that he would undertake to 
persuade the whole repubhc of readers to believe, 
that the sun was neither the cause of light nor heat, 
if he could only get six philosophers on his side. 
Farewell. 



LETTER XVII. 



From the same. 



Were an Asiatic pohtician to read the treaties 
of peace and friendship that have been annually 
making for more than a hundred years among the 
inhabitants of Europe, he would probably be sur- 
prised how it should ever happen that Christian 
princes could quarrel among each other. Their 
compacts for peace are drawn up with the utmost 
precision, and ratified with the greatest solemnity ; 
to these each party promises a sincere and in- 
violable obedience, and all wears the appearance of 
open friendship and unreserved reconcihation. 

Yet, notwithstanding those treaties, the people 
of Europe are almost continually at war. There 
is nothing more easy than to break a treaty ratified 
in all the usual forms, and yet neither party be the 
aggressor. One side, for instance, breaks a trifling 
article by mistake; the opposite party, upon this, 
makes a small but premeditated reprisal ; this brings 
on a return of greater from the other ; both sides 
complain of injuries and infractions; war is de- 
clared; they beat; are beaten; some two or three 
hundred thousand men are killed ; they grow tired ; 
leave off just where they began ; and so sit coolly 
down to make new treaties. 

The Enghsh and French seem to place them- 
selves foremost among the champion states of 
Europe. Though parted by a narrow sea, yet are 
they entirely of opposite characters ; and from their 
vicinity are taught to fear and admire each other. 
They are at present engaged in a very destructive 
war, have already spilled much blood, are excessive- 
ly initated, and all upon account of one side's de- 
siring to wear greater quantities oi furs than the 
other. 



' Fontenelle. 



The pretext of the war is about some lands a 
thousand leagues off: a country cold, desolate, and 
hideous ; a country belonging to a people who were 
in possession for time immemorial. The savages 
of Canada claim a property in the country in dis- 
pute ; they have all the pretensions which long pos- 
session can confer. Here they had reigned for 
ages without rivals in dominion, and knew no ene- 
mies but the prowHng bear or insidious tiger ; their 
native forests produced all the necessaries of life, 
and they found ample luxury in the enjoyment. In 
this manner they might have continued to live to 
eternity, had not the Enghsh been informed that 
those countries produced furs in great abundance. 
From that moment the country became an object 
of desire : it was found that furs were things very 
much wanted in England ; the ladies edged some 
of their clothes with furs, and muffs were worn both 
by gentlemen and ladies. In short, furs were found 
indispensably necessary for the happiness of the 
state ; and the king was consequently petitioned to 
grant, not only the country of Canada, but all the 
savages belonging to it, to the subjects of England, 
in order to have the people supplied vdth proper 
quantities of this necessary commodity. 

So very reasonable a request was immediately 
complied with, and large colonies were sent abroad 
to procure furs, and take possession. The French, 
who were equally in want of furs (for they were 
as fond of muffs and tippets as the English), made 
the very same request to their monarch, and met 
with the same gracious reception from their king, 
who generously granted what was not his to give. 
Wherever the French landed they called the coun- 
try their own ; and the English took possession 
wherever they came, upon the same equitable pre- 
tensions. The harmless savages made no opposi- 
tion ; and, could the intruders have agreed together, 
they might peaceably have shared this desolate 
country between them ; but they quarrelled about 
the boundaries of their settlements, about grounds 
and rivers to which neither side could show any 
other right than that of power, and which neither 
could occupy but by usurpation. Such is the con- 
test, that no honest man can heartily wish success 
to either party. 

The war has continued for some time with va- 
rious success. At first the French seemed victo- 
rious ; but the Enghsh have of late dispossessed 
them of the whole country in dispute. Tliiidi not, 
however, that success on one side is the harbinger 
of peace ; on the contrary, both parties must be 
heartily tired, to effect even a temporary reconcilia- 
tion. It should seem the business of the victorious 
party to offer terms of peace ; but there are many 
in England who, encouraged by success, are for 
still protracting the war. 

The best Enghsh pohticians, however, are sen- 
sible, that to keep their present conquests would be 



S66 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



rather a burden than an advantage to them ; rather 
a diminution of their strength than an increase of 
power. It is in the poUtic as in the human consti- 
tution : if the hmbs grow too large for the body, 
their size, instead of improving, will diminish the 
vigour of the whole. The colonies should always 
bear an exact proportion to the mother country ; 
when they grow populous, they grow powerful, 
and by becoming powerful, they become inde- 
pendent also ; thus subordination is destroyed, and 
a country swallowed up in the extent of its own 
dominions. The Turkish empire would be more 
formidable, were it less extensive ; were it not for 
those countries which it can neither command, nor 
give entirely away ; which it is obliged to protect, 
but from wliich it has no power to exact obedience. 
Yet, obvious as these truths are, there are many 
Englishmen who are for transplanting new colo- 
nies into this late acquisition, for peopling the de- 
serts of America with the refuse of their country- 
men, and (as they express it) with the waste of an 
exuberant nation. But who are those unhappy 
creatures who are to be thus drained away 7 Not 
the sickly, for they are unwelcome guests abroad as 
well as at home; nor the idle, for they would 
starve as well behind the Apalachian mountains 
as in the streets of London. This refuse is com- 
posed of the laborious and enterprising, of such 
men as can be serviceable to their country at home, 
of men who ought to be regarded as the sinews of 
the people, and cherished with every degree of po- 
litical indulgence. And what are the commodi- 
ties which this colony, when established, are to 
produce in return 1 why, raw silk, hemp, and to- 
bacco. England, therefore, must make an ex- 
change of her best and bravest subjects for raw 
silk, hemp, and tobacco ; her hardy veterans and 
honest tradesmen must be trucked for a box of 
snuff and a silk petticoat. Strange absurdity ! 
Sure the politics of the Daures are not more strange 
who sell their religion, their wives, and their liber 



There seems very little difiFerence between a 
Dutch bridegroom and a Dutch husband. Both 
are equally possessed of the same cool unexpecting 
serenity ; they can see neither Elysium nor Para- 
dise behind the curtain ; and Yiffrow is not more 
a goddess on the wedding-night, than after twenty 
years matrimonial acquaintance. On the other hand 
many of the English marry in order to have one 
happy month in their lives ; they seem incapable 
of looking beyond that period ; they unite in hopes 
of finding rapture, and disappointed in that, dis- 
dain ever to accept of happiness. From hence we 
see open hatred ensue ; or what is worse, concealed 
disgust under the appearance of fulsome endear- 
ment. Much formality, great civility, and studied 
compliments are exhibited in public ; cross looks, 
sulky silence, or open recrimination, fill up their 
hours of private entertainment. 

Hence 1 am taught, whenever I see a new- 
married couple more than ordinarily fond before 
faces, to consider them as attempting to impose 
upon the company or themselves ; either hating 
each other heartily, or consuming that stock of love 
in the beginning of their course, which should 
serve them through their whole journey. Neither 
side should expect those instances of kindness 
which are inconsistent with true freedom or hap- 
piness to bestow. Love, when founded in the 
heart, will show itself in a thousand unpremedi- 
tated sallies of fondness ; but every cool deliberate 
exhibition of the passion, only argues little under- 
iStanding, or great insincerity. 

Choang was the fondest husband, and Hansi, 
the most endearing wife in all the kingdom of Ko- 
rea : they were a pattern of conjugal bliss ; the in 
habitants of the country around saw, and envied 
their felicity ; wherever Choang came, Hansi was 
sure to follow ; and in all the pleasures of Hansi, 
Choang was admitted a partner. They walked 
hand in hand wherever they appeared, showing 
every mark of mutual satisfaction, embracing, 



ty, for a glass bead, or a paltry penknife. Fare- kissing, their mouths were forever joined, and, to 
well. speak in the language of anatomy, it was with them 

one perpetual anastomosis. 

Their love was so great, that it was thought no- 
thing could interrupt their mutual peace ; when 
an accident happened, which, in some measure, 
diminished the husband's assurance of his wife's 
fidelity ; for love so refined as his was subject to a 
thousand little disquietudes. 

Happening to go one day alone among the tombs 
that lay at some distance from his house, he there 
perceived a lady dressed in the deepest mourning 
(being clothed all over in wliite), fanning the wet 
clay that was raised over one of the graves with a 
large fan which she held in her hand. Choang, 
who had early been taught wisdom in the school 
of Lao, was unable to assign a cause for her pre- 
sent employment : and coming up ci^'illy demanded 



LETTER XVII. 

From the Same. 
The English love their wives with much pas- 
sion, the Hollanders with much prudence ; the 
English, when they give their hands, frequently 
give their hearts ; the Dutch give the hand but 
keep the heart wisely in their own possession. 
The English love with violence, and expect vio- 
lent love in return ; the Dutch are satisfied with 
the slightest acknowledgment, for they give little 
away. The English expend many of the matri- 
monial comforts in the first year ; the Dutch fru- 
gally husband out their pleasures, and are always 
constant because they are always indifferent. 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



267 



the reason. Alas! replied the lady, her eyes 
bathed in tears, how is it possible to survive the 
loss ofrny husband, who lies buried in this grave ! 
he was the best of men, the tenderest of husbands; 
with his dying breath he bid me never marry again 
till the earth over his grave should be dry; and here 
you see me steadily resolving to obey his will, and 
endeavouring to dry it with my fan. I have em- 
ployed two whole days in fulfilling his commands, 
and am determined not to marry till they are punc- 
tually obeyed, even though his grave should take 
up four days in drying. 

Choang, who was struck with the widow's beau- 
ty, could not, however, avoid smiling at her haste 
to be married; but concealing the cause of his 
mirth, civilly invited her home, adding, that he had 
a wife who might be capable of giving her some 
consolation. As soon as he and his guest were re- 
turned, he imparted to Hansi in private what he 
had seen, and could not avoid expressing his unea- 
siness, that such might be his own case if his dear- 
est wife should one day happen to survive him. 

It is impossible to describe Hansi's resentment at 
so unkind a suspicion. As her passion for him 
was not only great, but extremely delicate, she em- 
ployed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, to 
chide his suspicions ; the widow herself was in- 
veighed against ; and Hansi declared, she was re- 
solved never to sleep under the same roof with a 
wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of such bare- 
faced inconstancy. The night was cold and stormy ; 
however, the stranger was obliged to seek another 
lodging, for Choang was not disposed to resist, and 
Hansi would have her way. 

The widow had scarcely been gone an hour, 
when an old disciple of Choang' s whom he had not 
seen for many years, came to pay him a visit. He 
was received with the utmost ceremony, placed in 
the most honourable seat at supper, and the wine 
began to circulate with great freedom. Choang 
and Hansi exhibited open marks of mutual tender- 
ness, and unfeigned reconciUation : nothing could 
equal their apparent happiness ; so fond a husband, 
so obedient a wife, few could behold without re- 
gretting their own infelicity : when, lo ! their hap- 
piness was at once disturbed by a most fatal acci- 
dent. Choang fell lifeless in an apoplectic fit upon 
the floor. Every method was used, but in vain, for 
his recovery. Hansi was at first inconsolable for 
his death : after some hours, however, she found 
spirits to read his last will. The ensuing day, she 
began to moralize and talk wdsdom ; the next day, 
she was able to comfort the young disciple, and, 
on the third, to shorten a long story, they both 
agreed to he married. 

There was now no longer mourning in the apart- 
ments ; the body of Choang was now thrust into an 
old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest rooms, 
there to lie unattended until the time prescribed by 



law for his interment. In the meantime, Hansi 
and the young disciple were arrayed in the most 
magnificent habits ; the bride wore in her nose a 
jewel of immense price, and her lover was dressed 
in all the finery of his former master, together with 
a pair of artificial whiskers that reached down to 
his toes. The hour of their nuptials was arrived; 
the whole family sympathized with their approach- 
ing happiness ; the apartments were brightened up 
with fights that diffused the most exquisite per- 
fume, and a lustre more bright than noon-day. 
The lady expected her youthful lover in an inner 
apartment with impatience ; when his servant, ap- 
proaching with terror in his countenance, informed 
her, that his master was fallen into a fit which 
would certainly be mortal, unless the heart of a man 
lately dead could be obtained, and appUed to his 
breast. She scarcely waited to hear the end of his 
story, when tucking up her clothes, she ran with a 
mattock in her hand to the coffin where Choang 
lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead hus- 
band as a cure for the living. She therefore struck 
the lid with the utmost violence. In a few blows 
the coffin flew open, when the body, which to all 
appearance had been dead, began to move. Ter- 
rified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, and 
Choang walked out, astonished at his own situa- 
tion, his wife's unusual magnificence, and her more 
amazing surprise. He went among the apart- 
ments, unable to conceive the cause of so much 
splendour. He was not long in suspense before 
his domestics informed him of every transaction 
since he first became insensible. He could scarcely 
believe what they told him, and went in pursuit 
of Hansi herself, in order to receive more certain 
information, or to reproach her infidelity. But she 
prevented his reproaches : he found her weltering 
in blood ; for she had stabbed herself to the heart, 
being unable to survive her shame and disappoint- 
ment. 

Choang, being a philosopher, was too wise to 
make any loud lamentations : he thought it best to 
bear his loss with serenity ; so, mending up the old 
coffin where he had lain himself, he placed his 
faithless spouse in his room; and, unwilling that 
so many nuptial preparations should be expended 
in vain, he the same night married the widow 
with the large fan. 

As they both were apprised of the foibles of each 
other beforehand, they knew how to excuse them 
after marriage. They lived together for many 
years in great tranquillit)'-, and not expecting rap- 
ture, made a shift to find contentment. Farewell. 



LETTER XIX. 

To the Same. 
The gentleman dressed in black, who was my 
companion through Westminster Abbey, came yes- 



S68 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



terday to pay me a visit ; and after drinking tea, we 
both resolved to take a walk together, in order to en- 
joy the freshness of the country, which now begins 
to resume its verdure. Before we got out of the 
suburbs, however, we were stopped in one of the 
streets by a crowd of people, gathered in a circle 
round a man and his wife, who seemed too loud 
and too angry to be understood. The people were 
highly pleased with the dispute, which, upon in- 
quiry, we found to be between Dr. Cacafogo, an 
apothecary, and his wife. The doctor, it seems, 
coming unexpectedly into liis wife's apartment, 
found a gentleman there, in circumstances not in 
the least equivocal. 

The doctor, who was a person of nice honour, 
resolving to revenge the flagrant insult, imme- 
diately flew to the cliimney-piece, and taking down 
a rusty blunderbuss, drew the trigger upon the de- 
filer of his bed : the delinquent would certainly have 
been shot through the head, but that the piece had 
not been charged for many years. The gallant 
made a shift to escape through the window, but 
the lady still remained ; and as she well knew her 
husband's temper, undertook to manage the quar- 
rel without a second. He was furious, and she 
loud ; their noise had gathered all the mob, who 
charitably assembled on the occasion, not to pre- 
vent, but to enjoy the quarrel. 

Alas ! said I to my companion, what will become 
of this unhappy creature thus caught in adultery? 
Believe me, I pity her from my heart ; her hus- 
band, I suppose, will show her no mercy. Will 
they burn her as in India, or behead her as in Per- 
sia 1 Will they load her with stripes as in Tur- 
key, or keep her in perpetual imprisonment as 
with us in China 7 Prithee, what is the wife's 
punishment in England for such offences 7 When 
a lady is thus caught tripping, replied my com- 
panion, they never punish her, but the husband. 
You surely jest, interrupted 1 ; I am a foreigner, 
and you would abuse my ignorance ! I am really 
serious, returned he ; Dr. Cacafogo has caught his 
wife in the act ; but as he had no witnesses, his 
small testimony goes for nothing : the consequence, 
therefore, of his discovery Vv-ill be, that she will be 
packed off to live among her relations, and the 
doctor must be obliged to allow her a separate 
maintenance. Amazing ! cried I ; is it not enough 
that she is permitted to live separate from the ob- 
ject she detests, but must he give her money to 
keep her in spirits too 7 That he must, said my 
guide, and be called a cuckold by all his neigh- 
bours into the bargain. The men will laugh at 
him, the ladies will pity him : and all that his 
warmest friends can say in his favour will be, that 
the poor good soul has never had any harm in 
him. I want patience, interrupted I ; what ! are 
there no private chastisements for the wife ; no 
ecnools of penitence to show her folly ; no rods for 



suchdehnquents7 Psha, man, replied he, smiling, 
if every delinquent among us were to be treated in 
yoiur manner, one-half of the kingdom would flog 
the other. 

I must confess, my dear Pum, that if I were an 
English husband, of aU things I would take care 
not to be jealous, nor busily pry into those secrets 
my wife was pleased to keep from me. Should I 
detect her infideUty, what is the consequence 7 If 
I calmly pocket the abuse, I am laughed at by her 
and her gallant ; if I talk my griefs aloud, like a 
tragedy hero, I am laughed at by the whole world. 
The course then I would take would be, whenever 
I went out, to tell my wife where I was going, lest 
I should unexpectedly meet her abroad in compa- 
ny with some dear deceiver. Whenever I return- 
ed, I would use a peculiar rap at the door, and give 
four loud hems as I walked deliberately up the 
staircase. I would never inquisitively peep under 
her bed, or look under the curtsdns. And, even 
though I knew the captain was there, I would 
calmly take a dish of my wife's cool tea, and talk 
of the army with reverence. 

Of all nations, the Russians seem to me to be- 
have most wisely in such circiuustances. The 
wife promises her husband never to let him see her 
transgressions of this nature ; and he as punctually 
promises, whenever she is so detected, without the 
least anger, to beat her without mercy; so they 
both know what each has to expect; the lady 
transgresses, is beaten, taken again into favour, 
and all goes on as before. 

When a Russian young lady, therefore, is to be 
married, her father, with a cudgel in his hand, asks 
the bridegroom, whether he chooses this virgin for 
his bride 7 to which the other replies in the affirm- 
ative. Upon this, the father, turning the lady 
three times round, and giving her three strokes 
with his cudgel on the back, My dear, cries he, 
these are the last blows you are ever to receive 
from your tender father : I resign my a/uthority, 
and m.y cudgel, to your husband ; he knows bet- 
ter than me the use of either. The bridegroom 
knows decorum too well to accept of the cudgel 
abruptly; he assures the father that the lady will 
never want it, and that he would not for the world, 
make any use of it ; but the father, who knows 
what the lady may want better than he, insists 
upon his acceptance ; upon this there follows a 
scene of Russian politeness, while one refuses, and 
the other offers the cudgel. The whole, however, 
ends with the bridegroom's taking it ; upon which 
the lady drops a courtesy in token of obedience, 
and the ceremony proceeds as usual. 

There is something excessively fair and open in 
this method of courtship : by this, both sides are 
prepared for all the matrimonial adventures that 
are to follow. Marriage has been compared to a 
game of skill for life : it is generous thus in both 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



269 



parties to declare they are sharpers in the begin- 
ning. In England, I am told, both sides use every 
art to conceal their defects from each other before 
marriage, and the rest of their lives may be regard- 
ed as doing penance for their former dissimulation. 
Farewell. 



LETTER XX. 

From the same. 

The Republic of Letters, is a very common ex- 
pression among the Europeans ; and yet, v?hen ap- 
plied to the learned of Europe, is the most absurd 
that can be imagined, since nothing is more vmlike 
a republic than the society which goes by that name. 
From this expression, one would be apt to imagine 
that the learned were united into a single body, 
joining their interests, and concurring in the same 
design. From this, one might be apt to compare 
them to our literary societies in China, where each 
acknowledges a just subordination, and all contri- 
bute to build the temple of science, without at- 
tempting, from ignorance or envy, to obstruct each 
other. 

But very different is the state of learning here : 
every member of this fancied repubUc is desirous 
of governing, and none willing to obey ; each looks 
upon his fellow as a rival, not an assistant in the 
same pursuit. They calumniate, they injure, they 
despise, they ridicule each other ; if one man writes 
a book that pleases, others shall write books to show 
that he might have given still greater pleasure, or 
should not have pleased. If one happens to hit 
upon something new, there are numbers ready to 
assure the public that all this was no novelty to 
them or the learned ; that Cardanus, or Brmius, 
or some other author too dull to be generally read, 
had anticipated the discovery. Thus, instead of 
uniting like the members of a commonwealth, they 
are divided into almost as many factions as there 
are men : and their jarring constitution, instead of 
being styled a republic of letters, should be entitled 
an anarchy of literature. 

It is true, there are some of superior abilities 
who reverence and esteem each other; but their 
mutual admiration is not sufficient to shield ofl" the 
contempt of the crowd. The wise are but few, and 
they praise with a feeble voice; the vulgar are 
many, and roar in reproaches. The truly great 
seldom unite in societies; have few meetings, no 
cabals ; the dunces hunt in full cry, till they have 
run down a reputation, and then snarl and fight 
with each other about dividing the spoil. Here 
you may see the compilers and the book-answerers 
of every month, when they have cut up some re- 
spectable name, most frequently reproaching each 
other with stupidity and dulness; resembling the 
wolves of the Russian forest, who prey upon veni 



son, or horse-flesh, when they can get it ; but in 
cases of necessity, lying in wait to devour each 
other. While they have new books to cut up, they 
make a hearty meal ; but if this resource should 
unhappily fail, then it is that critics eat up critics, 
and compilers rob from compilations. 

Confucius observes, that it is the duty of the 
learned to unite society more closely, and to per- 
suade men to become citizens of the world ; but 
the authors I refer to, are not only for disuniting 
society but kingdoms also : if the EngUsh are at 
war with Prance, the dunces of Fra)ice think it 
their duty to be at war with those of England. 
Thus Preron, one of their first-rate scribblers, 
thinks proper to characterize all the English wri- 
ters in the gross : " Their whole merit (says he) 
consists in exaggeration, and often in extravagance : 
correct their pieces as you please, there still re- 
mains a leaven which corrupts the whole. They 
sometimes discover genius, but not the smallest 
share of taste : England is not a soil for the plants 
of genius to thrive m." This is open enough, with 
not the least adulation in the picture : but hear 
what a Frenchman of acknowledged abilities says 
upon the same subject : " I am at a loss to deter- 
mine in what we excel the EngHsh, or where they 
excel us : when I compare the merits of both in 
any one species of literary composition, so many 
reputable and pleasing writers present themselves 
from either country, that my judgment rests in sus- 
pense : I am pleased with the disquisition, without 
finding the object of my inquiry." But lest you 
should tliink the French alone are faulty in this 
respect, hear how an English journalist delivers his 
sentiments of them : " We are amazed (says he) 
to find so many works translated from the French, 
while we have such numbers neglected of our own. 
In ouropinion, notwithstanding their fame through- 
out the rest of Europe, the French are the most 
contemptible reasoners (we had almost said vnri- 
ters) that can be imagined. However, neverthe- 
less, excepting," etc. Another English writer, 
Shaftesbury if I remember, on the contrary, says 
that the French authors are pleasing and judicious, 
more clear, more methodical and entertaining, than 
those of his own country. 

From these opposite pictures, you perceive, that 
the good authors of either country praise, and the 
bad revile each other ; and yet, perhaps, you will 
be surprised that indiflferent writers should thus be 
the most apt to censure, as they have the most to 
apprehend from recrimination : you may, perhaps, 
imagine, that such as are possessed of fame them- 
selves, should be most ready to declare their opi- 
nions, since what they say might pass for decision. 
But the truth happens to be, that the great are so- 
licitous only of raising their own reputations, while 
the opposite class, alas ! are sohcitous of bringing 
every reputation down to a level with their own. 



270 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



But let us acquit them of malice and envy. A 
critic is often guided by the same motives that di- 
rect his author. The author endeavours to per- 
suade us, that he has written a good book ; the 
critic is equally solicitous to shov? that he could 
write a better, had he thought proper. A critic is 
a being possessed of all the vanity, but not the ge- 
nius of a scholar ; incapable, from his native weak- 
ness, of lifting himself from the ground, he applies 
to contiguous merit for support ; makes the spor- 
tive sallies of another's imagination his serious 
employment ; pretends to talie our feeUngs under 
his care ; teaches where to condemn, where to lay 
the emphasis of praise ; and may with as much 
justice be called a man of taste, as the Chinese 
who measures his wisdom by the length of his 
nails. 

If, then, a book, spirited or humorous, happens 
to appear in the republic of letters, several critics 
are in waiting to bid the public not to laugh at a 
single line of it ; for themselves had read it, and 
they know what is most proper to excite laughter. 
Other critics contradict the fulminations of this 
tribunal, call them all spiders, and assure the pub- 
lie that they ought to laugh without restraint. 
Another set are in the mean time quietly employed 
in writing notes to the book, intended to show the 
particular passages to be laughed at : when these 
are out, others still there are who write notes upon 
notes : thus a single new book employs not only 
the paper-makers, the printers, the pressmen, the 
book-binders, the hawkers, but twenty critics, and 
as many compilers. In short, the body of the 
learned may be compared to a Persian army, where 
there are many pioneers, several sutlers, number- 
less servants, women and children in abundance, 
and but few soldiers. Adieu. 



LETTER XXI. 



To the Same. 



The English are as fond of seeing plays acted 
as the Cliinese ; but there is a vast difference 
in the manner of conducting them. We play our 
pieces in the open air. the English theirs under 
cover; we act by daylight, they by the blaze of torch- 
es. One of our plays continues eight or ten days 
successively ; an English piece seldom takes up 
above four hours in the representation. 

My companion in black, with whom I am now 
beginning to contract an intimacy, introduced me 
a few nights ago to the play-house, where we 
placed ourselves conveniently at the foot of the 
stage. As the curtain was not drawn before my 
arrival, I had an opportunity of observing th,e be- 
haviour of the spectators, and indulging those re- 
flections which novelty generally inspires. 



The rich in general were placed in the lowest 
seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees pro- 
portioned to their poverty. The order of prece- 
dence seemed here inverted ; those who were un- 
dermost all the day, now enjoyed a temporary emi- 
nence, and became masters of the ceremonies. It 
was they who called for the music, indulging every 
noisy freedom, and testifying all the insolence of 
beggary in exaltation. 

They who held the middle region seemed not so 
riotous as those above them, nor yet so tame as those 
below : to judge by their looks, many of them 
seemed strangers there as well as myself : they 
were chiefly employed, during this period of ex- 
pectation, in eating oranges, readmg the story of 
the play, or making assignations. 

Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are 
called the pit, seemed to consider themselves as 
judges of the merit of the poet and the performers ; 
they were assembled partly to be amused, and 
partly to show their taste ; appearing to labour un- 
der that restraint wliich an affectation of superior 
discernment generally produces. My companion, 
however, informed me, that not one in a hundred 
of them knew even the first principles of criticism; 
that they assumed the right of being censors be- 
cause there was none to contradict their preten- 
sions ; and that every man who now called himself 
a connoisseur, became such to all intents and pur- 
poses. 

Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the 
most unhappy situation of all. The rest of the 
audience came merely for their own amusement ; 
these, rather to furnish out a part of the entertain- 
ments themselves. I could not avoid considering 
them as acting parts in dumb show — not a courte- 
sy or nod that was not the result of art ; not a look 
nor a smile that was not designed for murder. 
Gentlemen and ladies ogled each other through 
spectacles ; for my companion observed, that blind- 
ness was of late become fashionable ; all affected 
indifference and ease, while their hearts at the same 
time burned for conquest. Upon the whole, the 
lights, the music, the ladies in their gayest dresses, 
the men with cheerfulness and expectation in their 
looks, all conspired to make a most agreeable pic- 
ture, and to fill a heart that sympathizes at human 
happiness vnth inexpressible serenity. 

The expected time for the play to begin at last 
arrived; the curtain was drawn, and the actors 
came on. A woman, who personated a queen, 
came in courtseying to the audience, who clapped 
their hands upon her appearance. Clapping of 
hands, is, it seems, the manner of applauding in 
England ; the manner is absurd, but every country, 
you know, has its pecuhar absurdities. I was 
equally surprised, however, at the submission of the 
actress, who should have considered herself as a 
queen, as at the little discernment of the audience 



CITIZEiS' OP THE WORLD. 



271 



who gave her such marks of applause before she 
attempted to deserve them. Preliminaries between 
her and the audience being thus adjusted, the dia- 
logue was supported between her and a most hope- 
ful youth, who acted the part of her confidant. 
They both appeared in extreme distress, for it 
seems the queen had lost a child some fifteen years 
before, and still keeps its dear resemblance next 
her heart, while her kind companion bore a part in 
her sorrows. 

Her lamentations grew loud ; comfort is offered, 
but she detests the very sound : she bids them 
preach comfort to the winds. Upon this her hus- 
band comes in, who, seeing the queen so much 
affected, can himself hardly refrain from tears, or 
avoid partaking in the soft distress. After thus 
grieving through three scenes, the curtain dropped 
for the first act. 

Truly, said I to my companion, these kings and 
queens are very much disturbed at no very great mis- 
fortune : certain I am, were people of humbler sta- 
tions to act in this manner, they would be thought 
divested of common sense. I had scarcely finished 
this observation, when the curtain rose, and the 
king came on in a violent passion. His wife had, 
it seems, refused his proffered tenderness, had 
spurned his royal embrace ; and he seemed resolv- 
ed not to survive her fierce disdain. After he had 
thus fretted, and the queen had fretted through the 
second act, the curtain was let down once more. 

Now, says my companion, you perceive the king 
to be a man of spirit ; he feels at every pore : one 
of your phlegmatic sons of clay would have given 
the queen her own way, and let her come to her- 
self by degrees ; but the king is for immediate ten- 
derness, or instant death: death and tenderness 
are leading passions of every modern buskined 
hero; this moment they embrace, and the next 
stab, mixing daggers and kisses in every period. 

I was going to second his remarks, when my at- 
tention was engrossed by a new object ; a man 
came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the au- 
dience were clapping their hands in all the raptures 
of applause. To what purpose, cried I, does this 
unmeaning figure make his appearance ; is he a 
part of the plof] Unmeaning do you call him 7 re- 
phed my friend in black ; this is one of the most 
important characters of the whole play ; nothing 
pleases the people more than seeing a straw bal- 
anced : there is a great deal of meaning in the 
straw ; there is something suited to every appre- 
hension in the sight ; and a fellow possessed of 
talents hke these is sure of making his fortune. 

The tliird act now began with an actor who 
came to inform us that he was the villain of the play, 
and intended to show strange things before all was 
over. He was joined by another, who seemed as 
much disposed for mischief as he : their intrigues 
continued through this whole division. If that be 



a villain said I, he must be a veiy stupid one to tell 
his secrets without being asked ; such soliloquies of 
late are never admitted in China. 

The noise of clapping interrupted me once more ; 
a child of six years old was learning to dance on 
the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarines 
infinite satisfaction. I am sorry, said I, to see the 
pretty creature so early learning so bad a trade ; 
dancing being, I presume, as contemptible here as 
in China. Gluite the reverse, interrupted my com- 
panion ; dancing is a very reputable and genteel 
employment here ; men have a greater chance for 
encouragement from the merit of their heels than 
their heads. One who jumps up and flourishes his 
toes three times before he comes to the ground, may 
have three hundred a-5'ear ; he who flourishes them 
four times, gets four hundred ; but he who arrives 
at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary 
he thinks proper. The female dancers, too, are 
valued for this sort of jumping and crossing; and 
it is a cant word among them, that she deserves 
most who shows highest. But the fourth act is 
begun ; let us be attentive. 

In the fourth act the queen finds her long-lost 
child, now grown up into a youth of smart parts 
and great qualifications; wherefore, she wisely 
considers that the crown will fit his head better 
than that of her husband, whom she knows to be 
a driveller. The king discovers her design, and 
here comes on the deep distress ; he loves the 
queen, and he loves the kingdom; he resolves, 
therefore, in order to possess both, that her son must 
dia The queen exclaims at his barbarity, is frantic 
with rage, and at length, overcome with sorrow, 
falls into a fit ; upon which the curtain drops, and 
the act is concluded. 

Observe the art of the poet, cries my companion. 
When the queen can say no more, she falls into a 
fit. While thus her eyes are shut, while she is 
supported in the arms of her abigail, what horrors 
do we not fancy! We feel it in every nerve ; take 
my word for it, that fits are the true aposiopesis of 
modern tragedy. 

The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. 
Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs halloo- 
ing, carpets spreading, guards bustling from one 
door to another ; gods, demons, daggers, racks, and 
ratsbane. But whether the king was killed, or the 
queen was drowned, or the son was poisoned, I 
have absolutely forgotten. 

When the play was over, I could not avoid ob- 
serving, that the persons of the drama appeared in 
as much distress in the first act as the last : How 
is it possible, said I, to sympathize with them 
through five long acts ! Pity is but a short-lived 
passion ; I hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles ; 
neither startings, strainings, nor attitudes affect 
me, unless there be cause : after I have been once 
or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my 



272 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by the 
principal distress. Thereljfe|lould be one great 
passion aimed a:t by the actor as well as the poet ; 
all the rest should be subordinate, and only contri- 
bute to make that the greater : if the actor, there- 
fore, exclaims upon every occasion in the tones of 
despair, he attempts to move us too soon ; he anti- 
cipates the blovsf, he ceases to affect, though he 
gains our applause. 

I scarcely perceived that the audience were al- 
most all departed; wherefore, mixing with the 
crowd, my companion and I got into the street; 
where, essaying a hundred obstacles from coach- 
wheels and palanquin poles, like birds in their 
flight through the branches of a forest, after vari- 
ous turnings we both at length got home in safety. 
Adieu. 



LETTER XXII. 



To the same. 



The letter which came by the way of Smyrna, 
and which you sent me unopened, was from my 
son. As I have permitted you to take copies of all 
those I sent to China, you might have made no 
ceremony in opening those directed to me. Either 
in joy or sorrow, my friend should participate m 
my feelings. It would give ■pleasure to see a good 
man ■pleased at iny success ; it would give almost 
equal pleasure to see him sympathise at my disap- 
pointment. 

Every account I receive from the East seems to 
come loaded with some new afHiction. My wife 
and daughter were taken from me, and yet I sus- 
tained the loss with intrepidity; my son is made a 
slave among the barbarians, which was the only 
blow that could have reached my heart : yes, I will 
indulge the transports of nature for a little, in order 
to show I can overcome them in the end. True 
■magnanimity consists not in never falling, but 
in RISING every time ■we fall. 

When our mighty emperor had published his 
displeasure at my departure, and seized upon all 
that was mine, my son was privately secreted from 
Ms resentment. Under the protection and guard- 
ianship of Fum Hoam, the best and the wisest of 
all the inhabitants of China, he was for some time 
instructed in the learning of the missionaries, and 
the wisdom of the East. But hearing of my ad- 
ventures, and incited by filial piety, he was resolved 
to follow my fortunes, and share my distress. 

He passed the confines of China in disguise, 
hired himself as a camel-driver to a caravan that 
was crossing the deserts of Thibet, and was within 
one day's journey of the river Laur, which divides 
that country from India, when a body of wander- 
ing Tartars falling unexpectedly upon the caravan, 



plundered it, and made those who escaped their first 
fury slaves. By those he was led into the exten- 
sive and desolate regions that border on the shores 
of the Aral lake. 

Here he Hved by hunting; and was obUged to 
supply every day a certain proportion of the spoil, 
to regale his savage masters. His learning, his 
virtues, and even his beauty, were qualifications 
that no way served to recommend him; they knew 
no merit, but that of providing large quantities of 
milk and raw flesh; and were sensible of no happi- 
ness but that of rioting on the undressed meal. 

Some merchants from Mesched, however, coming 
to trade with the Tartars for slaves, he was sold 
among the number, and led into the kingdom of 
Persia, where he is now detained. He is there 
obliged to watch the looks of a voluptuous and cruel 
master, a man fond of pleasure, yet incapable of re- 
finement, whom many years' service in war has 
taught pride, but not braver}'. 

That treasure which I still keep within my 
bosom, my child, my all that was left to me, is now 
a slave.* Good Heavens, why was this 1 Why 
have I been introduced into this mortal apartment, 
to be a spectator of my own misfortunes, and the- 
misfortunes of my fellow-creatures? Wherever 1 
turn, what a labyrinth of doubt, error, and disap- 
pointment appears ! Why was I brought into be- 
ing ; for what purposes made ; from whence have 1 
come; whither strayed; or to what regions am I 
hastening 1 Reason can not resolve. It lends a 
ray to show the horrors of my prison, but not a 
Hght to guide me to escape them. Ye boasted 
revelations of the earth, how little do you aid the 
inquiry ! 

How am I surprised at the inconsistency of the 
magi! their two principles of good and evil affright 
me. The Indian who bathes his visage in urine, 
and calls it piety, strikes me with astonishment. 
The Christian who believes in three Gods is high- 
ly absurd. The Jews, who pretend that deity is 
pleased with the effusion of blood, are not less dis- 
pleasing. I am equally surprised, that rational be- 
ings can come from the extremities of the earth, in 
order to kiss a stone, or scatter pebbles. How con- 
trary to reason are those ! and yet all pretend to 
teach me to be happy. 

Surely all men are blind and ignorant of truth. 
Mankind wanders, unknowing his way, from 
morning till evening. Where shall we turn after 
happiness ; or is it wisest to desist from the pursuit ! 
Like reptiles in a corner of some stupendous palace, 
we peep from our holes, look about us, wonder at 
all we see, but are ignorant of the great architect's 
design. O for a revelation of himself, for a plan of 
his universal system! O for the reasons of our 

• This -whole apostrophe seems most literally translated 
from Ambulaaohamed, the Ai-abian poet. 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



273 



creation ; or why were we created to be thus un- 
happy ! If we are to experience no other felicity 
but what this hfe affords, then are we miserable in- 
deed ; if we are born only to look about us, repine 
and die, then has Heaven been guilty of injustice. 
If this life terminates my existence, I despise the 
blessings of Providence and the wisdom of the 
giver : if this life be my all, let the following epitaph 
be written on the tomb of Altangi : By my father'' s 
crimes I received this ; by my own crimes Ibequeath 
it to posterity. 



LETTER XXIII. 



Yet, while I sometimes lament the case of hu- 
manity, and the depravity of human nature, there 
now and then appear gleams of greatness that serve 
to relieve the eye oppressed with the hideous pros- 
pects, and resemble those cultivated spots that are 
sometimes found in the midst of an Asiatic wilder- 
ness. I see many superior excellencies among the 
English, which it is not in the power of all their 
follies to hide : I see virtues, which in other coun- 
tries are known only to a few, practised here by 
every rank of people. 

I know not whether it proceeds from their su- 
perior opulence that the English are more chari- 
table than the rest of mankiird ; whether b}' being 
possessed of all the conveniences of life themselves, 
they have more leisure to perceive the uneasy situ- 
ation of the distressed; whatever be the motive, 
they are not only the most charitable of any other 
nation, but most judicious in distinguishing the 
properest objects of compassion. 

In other countries, the giver is generally influ- 
enced by the immediate impulse of pity ; his gener- 
osity is exerted as much to relieve his own uneas}- 
sensations as to comfort the object in distress. In 
England, benefactions are of a more general na- 
ture. Some men of fortune and universal benevo- 
lence propose the proper objects; the wants and 
the merits of the petitioners are canvassed by the 
people ; neither passion nor pity find a place in the 
cool discussion ; and charity is then only exerted 
when it has received the approbation of reason. 

A late instance of this finely directed benevo- 
lence forces itself so strongly on my imagination, 
that it in a manner reconciles me to pleasure, and 
once more makes me the universal friend of man. 

The English and French have not only politi- 
cal reasons to induce them to mutual hatred, but 
often the more prevailing motive of private interest 
to widen the breach. A war between other coun- 
tries is carried on collectively ; army fights against 
army, and a man's own private resentment is lost 
in that of the community : but in England and 
18 



France, the individuals of each country plunder 
each other at sea without redress, and consequent- 
ly feel that animosity against each other which 
passengers do at a robber. They have for some 
time carried on an expensive war ; and several cap- 
tives have been taken on both sides : those made 
prisoners by the French have been used with cruel- 
ty, and guarded with unnecessary caution ; those 
taken by the English, being much more numerous, 
were confined in the ordinary manner ; and not 
being released by their countrymen, began to feel 
all those inconveniences which arise from want of 
covering and long confinement. 

Their countrymen were informed of their de- 
plorable situation ; but they, more intent on annoy- 
ing their enemies than relieving their friends, re- 
fused the least assistance. The English now saw 
thousands of their fellow-creatures starwng in 
every prison, forsaken by those whose duty it was 
to protect them, labouring with disease, and with- 
out clothes to keep off the severity of the season. 
National benevolence prevailed over national ani- 
mosity; their prisoners were indeed enemies, but 
they were enemies in distress ; they ceased to be 
hateful, when they no longer continued to be formi- 
dable : forgetting, therefore, their national hatred, 
the men who were brave enough to conquer, were 
generous enough to forgive ; and they whom all 
the world seemed to have <lisclaimed, at last found 
pity and redress from those they attempted to sub- 
due. A subscription was opened, ample charities 
collected, proper necessaries procured, and the poor 
gay sons of a merry nation were once more taught 
to resume their former gaiety. 

When 1 cast my eye over the list of those wha 
contributed on this occasion, I find the names al- 
most entirely English ; scarcely one foreigner ap- 
pears among the number. It was for Englishmen 
alone to be capable of such exalted virtue. I own, 
I can not look over this catalogue of good men and 
philosophers, without thinkingbetterof myself, be- 
cause it makes me entertsin a more favourable 
opinion of mankind. 1 am particularly struck 
with one who writes these words upon the paper 
that enclosed his benefaction: The mite of an 
Englishman, a citizen of the world, to French- 
men, prisoners of war, and naked. I only wish 
that he may find as much pleasure from his virtues 
as I have done in reflecting upon them ; that alone 
will amply reward him. Such a one, my friend, 
is an honour to human nature; he makes no pri- 
vate distinctions of party; all that are stamped 
with the divine image of their Creator are friends 
to him; he is a native of the world; and the em- 
peror of China may be proud that he has such a 
countryman. 

To rejoice at the destruction of our enemies, is 
a foible grafted upon human nature, and we must 
be permitted to indulge it ; the true way of atoning 



274 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



for such an ill-founded pleasure, is thus to turn 
ova triumph into an act of benevolence, and to 
testify our own joy by endeavouring to banish 
anxiety from others. 

Hamti, the best and wisest emperor that ever 
filled the throne, after having gained three signal 
victories over the Tartars, who had invaded his 
dominions, returned to Nankin in order to enjoy 
the glory of his conquest. After he had rested for 
some days, the people, who are naturally fond of 
processions, impatiently expected the triumphant 
entry, which emperors upon such occasions were 
accustomed to make : their murmurs came to the 
emperor's ear ; he loved his people, and was will- 
ing to do all in his power to satisfy their just de- 
sires. He therefore assured them, that he intend- 
ed, upon the next feast of the Lanterns, to exhibit 
one of the most glorious triumphs that had ever 
been seen in China. 

The people were in raptures at his condescen- 
sion; and, on the appointed day, assembled at the 
gates of the palace with the most eager expecta- 
tions. Here they waited for some time, without 
seeing any of those preparations which usually 
precede a pageant. The lantern, with ten thou 
sand tapers, was not yet brought forth ; the fire- 
works, which usually covered the city walls, were 
not yet lighted; the people once more began to 
murmur at this delay, when, in the midst of their 
impatience, the palace-gates flew open, and the 
emperor himself appeared, not in splendour or 
magnificence, but in an ordinary habit, followed by 
the Wind, the maimed, and the strangers of the 
city, all in new clothes, and each carrying in his 
hand money enough to supply his necessities for 
the year. The people were at first amazed, but 
soon perceived the wisdom of their king, who 
taught them, that to make one happy man was 
more truly great than having ten thousand captives 
groaning at the wheels of his chariot. Adieu, 



LETTER XXIV. 



To the Same. 



Whatever may be the merits of the English in 
other sciences, they seem pecuUarly excellent in 
the art of healing. There is scarcely a disorder 
incident to humanity, against which they are not 
possessed with a most infallible antidote. The 
professors of other arts confess the inevitable in- 
tricacy of things ; talk with doubt, and decide with 
hesitation ; but doubting is entirely unknown in 



time, knowledge of a bedfellow, or hinderance of 
business. 

When I consider the assiduity of this profession, 
their benevolence amazes me. They not only in 
general give their medicine for half value, but use 
the most persuasive remonstrances to induce the 
sick to come and be cured. Sure, there must be 
something strangely obstinate in an English pa- 
tient, who refuses so much health upon such easy 
terms : does he take a pride in being bloated with 
a dropsy 1 does he find pleasure in the alternations 
of an intermittent fever? or feel as much satisfac- 
tion in nursing up his gout as he found pleasure , 
in acquiring it 7 He must, otherwise he would 
never reject such repeated assurances of instant 
rehef. What can be more convincing than the 
manner in which the sick are invited to be well? 
The doctor first begs the most earnest attention of 
the public to what he is going to propose ; he so- 
lemnly affirms the pill was never found to want 
success; he produces a list of those who have been 
rescued from the grave by taking it : yet, notwith- 
standing all this, there are many here who now 
and then think proper to be sick. Only sick, die 
1 say 1 there are some who even think proper to 
die! Yes, by the head of Confucius! they die; 
though they might have purchased the health- 
restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner. 
I am amazed, my dear Fum Hoam, that these 
doctors, who know what an obstinate set of people 
they have to deal with, have never thought of at- 
tempting to revive the dead. When the Uving 
are found to reject their prescriptions, they ought 
in conscience to apply to the dead, from whom 
they can expect no such mortifying repulses ; they 
would find in the dead the most complying patients 
imaginable: and what gratitude might they not 
expect from the patient's son, now no longer an 
heir, and his wife, now no longer a widow ! 

Think not, my friend, that there is any thing 
chimerical in such an attempt ; they already per- 
form cures equally strange. What can be more 
truly astonishing, than to see old age restored to 
youth, and vigour to the most feeble constitutions 1 
Yet this is performed here every day : a simple 
electuary efifects these wonders, even without the 
bungUng ceremonies of having the patient boiled 
up in a kettle, or ground down in a mill. 

Few physicians here go through the ordinary 
courses of education, but receive all their know- 
ledge of medicine by immediate inspiration from 
Heaven. Some are thus inspired even in the 
womb ; and what is very remarkable, understand 
their profession as well at three years old as at 



medicine ; the advertising professors here delight ' threescore. Others have spent a great part of 



in cases of difficulty : be the disorder never so their lives unconscious of any latent excellence, 
desperate or radical, you will find numbers in till a bankruptcy, or a residence in gaol, have 
every street, who, by levelling a pill at the part called their miraculous powers into exertion. And 
affected, promise a certain cure, without loss of others still there are indebted to their superlative 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



275 



Ignorance alone for success ; the more ignorant the 
practitioner, the less capable is he thought of de- 
ceiving. The people here judge as they do in the 
East ; where it is thought absolutely requisite that 
a man should be an idiot, before he pretend to be 
either a conjuror or a doctor. 

When a physician by inspiration is sent for, he 
never perplexes the patient by previous examina- 
tion ; he asks very few questions, and those only 
for form sake. He knows every disorder by in- 
tuition ; he administers the pill or drop for every 
distemper ; nor is more inquisitive than the farrier 
while he drenches a horse. If the patient hves, 
then has he one more to add to the surviving list ; 
if he dies, then it may be justly said of the patient's 
disorder, that as it was not cured, the disorder was 
incurable. 



LETTER XXV. 



From the Same. 



I WAS some days ago in company with a politi- 
cian, who very pathetically declaimed upon the 
miserable situation of his country : he assured me, 
that the whole political machine was moving in a 
wrong track, and that scarcely even abilities like 
his own could ever set it right again. " What have 
we," said he, "to do with the wars on the conti- 
nent? we are a commercial nation ; we have only 
to cultivate commerce^ like our neighbours the 
Dutch ; it is our business to increase trade by set- 
tling new colonies ; riches are the strength of a na- 
tion ; and for the rest, our ships, our ships alone, 
will protect us." I found it vain to oppose my 
feeble arguments to those of a man who thought 
himself wise enough to direct even the ministry. 
I fancied, however, that I saw with more certainty, 
because I reasoned without prejudice : I therefore 
begged leave, instead of argument, to relate a short 
history. He gave me a smile at once of conde- 
scension and contempt ; and I proceeded as follows- 
to describe The Rise and Dkclension of the 
Kingdom of Lao. 

Northward of China, and in one of the doublings 
of the great wall, the fruitful province of Lao en 
joyed its liberty, and a peculiar government of its 
own. As the inhabitants were on all sides sur- 
rounded by the wall, they feared no sudden inva- 
sion from the Tartars ; and being each possessed 
of property, they were zealous in its defence. 

The natural consequence of security and af- 
fluence in any country is a love of pleasure ; when 
the wants of nature are supplied, we seek after the 
conveniences; when possessed of these, we desire 
the luxuries of life ; and when every luxury is pro- 
vided, it is then ambition takes up the man, and 
leaves him still something to wish for : the inhabi- 



tants of the country, from primitive simplicity, soon 
began to aim at elegance, and from elegance pro- 
ceeded to refinement. It was now found abso- 
lutely requisite, for the good of the state, that the 
people should be divided. Formerly, the same hand 
that was employed in tilling the ground, or in dress- 
ing up the manufactures, was also, in time of need, 
a soldier ; but the custom was now changed ; for it 
was perceived, that a man bred up from childhood 
to the arts of either peace or war, became more 
eminent by this means in his respective profession. 
The inhabitants were, therefore, now distinguished 
into artisans and soldiers ; and while those im- 
proved the luxuries of life these watched for the 
security of the people. 

A country possessed of freedom has always two 
sorts of enemies to fear; foreign foes, who attack its 
existence from without, and internal miscreants, 
who betray its liberties within. The inhabitants 
of Lao were to guard against both. A country of 
artisans were most likely to preserve internal hber- 
ty; and a nation of soldiers were fittest to repel a 
foreign invasion. Hence naturally rose a division 
of opinion between the artisans and soldiers of the 
kingdom. Tlie artisans, ever complaining that 
freedom was threatened by an armed internal force, 
were for disbanding the soldiers, and insisted that 
their walls; their walls alone, were sufficient to re- 
pel the most formidable invasion : the warriors, on 
the contrary, represented the power of the neigh- 
bouring kings, the combinations formed against 
their state, and the weakness of the wall, which 
every earthquake might overturn. While this al- 
tercation continued, the kingdom might be justly 
said to enjoy its greatest share of vigour ; every or- 
der in the state, by being watchful over each other, 
contributed to diffuse happiness equall}', and ba- 
lanced the state. The arts of peace flourished, nor 
were those of war neglected : the neighbouring 
powers, who had nothing to apprehend from the 
ambition of men whom they only saw solicitous, 
not for riches but freedom, were contented to traffic 
with them : they sent their goods to be manufac- 
tured in Lao, and paid a large price for them upon 
their return. 

By these means, this people at length became 
moderately rich, and their opulence naturally in- 
vited the invader : a Tartar prince led an immense 
army against them, and they as bravely stood up 
in their own defence ; they were still inspired with 
a love of their country; they fought the barbarous 
enemy with fortitude, and gained a complete vic- 
tory. 

From this moment, which they regarded as the 
completion of their glory, historians date their down- 
fal. They had risen in strength by a love of their 
country, and fell by indulging ambition. The 
country, possessed by the invading Tartars, seemed 
to them a prize that would not only render thenj 



276 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



more formidable for the future, but vhich would 
increase their opulence for the present ; it was 
unanimously resolved, therefore, both by soldiers 
and artisans, that those desolate regions should be 
peopled by colonies from Lao. When a trading 
nation begins to act the conqueror, it is then per- 
fectly undone : it subsists in some measure by the 
support of its neighbours : while they continue to 
regard it without envy or apprehension, trade may 
flourish ; but when once it presumes to assert as its 
right what is only enjoyed as a favour, each coun- 
trv reclaims that part of commerce which it has 
power to take back, and turns it into some other 
channel more honourable, though perhaps less con- 
venient, t 

Every neighbour now began to regard with jeal- 
ous eyes this ambitious commonwealth, and forbade 
their subjects any future intercourse with them. 
The inhabitants of Lao, however, still pursued the 
same ambitious maxims : it was from their colonies 
alone they expected riches j and riches, said they, 
are strength, and strength is security. Numberless 
were the migrations of the desperate and enter- 
prising of this country, to people the desolate do- 
minions lately possessed by the Tartar. Between 
these colonies and the mother country, a very ad- 
vantageous traffic was at first carried on : the re- 
public sent their colonies large quantities of the 
manufactures of the country, and they in return 
provided the republic with an equivalent in ivory 
and ginseng. By this means the inhabitants be- 
came immensely rich, and this produced an equal 
degree of voluptuousness ; for men who have much 
money will always find some fantastical modes of 
enjoyment. How shall I mark the steps by which 
they dechned ? Every colony in process of time 
spreads over the whole country where it first was 
planted. As it grows more populous, it becomes 
more polite ; and those manufactures for which it 
was in the beginning obliged to others, it learns to 
dress up itself: such was the case with the colonies 
of Lao ; they, in less than a century, became a 
powerful and a polite people, and the more polite 
they grew the less advantageous was the commerce 
which still subsisted between them and others. By 
this means the mother country being abridged in 
its commerce, grew poorer but not less luxurious. 
Their former wealth had introduced luxury ; and 
wherever luxury once fixes, no art can either lessen 
or remove it. Their commerce with their neigh- 
bours was totally destroyed, and that with their 
colonies was every day naturally and necessarily 
declining ; they still, however, preserved the inso- 
lence of wealth, without a power to support it, and 
persevered in being luxurious, while contemptible 
from poverty. In short, the state resembled one 
of those bodies bloated with disease, whose bulk is 
only a symptom of its wretchedness. 

Their former opulence only rendered them more 



impotent, as those individuals who are reduced from 
riches to poverty are of all men the most unfor- 
tunate and helpless. They had imagined, because 
their colonies tended to make them rich upon the 
first acquisition, they would still continue to do so; 
they now found, however, that on themselves alone 
they should have depended for siipport ; that colo- 
nies ever afforded but temporary afiluence ; and 
when cultivated and polite, are no longer useful. 
From such a concurrence of circumstances they 
soon became contemptible. The Emperor Honti 
invaded them with a powerful army. Historians 
do not say whether their colonies were too remote 
to lend assistance, or else were desirous of shaking 
off their dependence ; but certain it is, they scarcely 
made any resistance : their walls were now found 
but a weak defence, and they at length were 
obliged to acknowledge subjection to the empire of 
China. 

Happy, very happy might they have been, had 
they known when to bound their riches and their 
glory : had they known that extending empire is 
often diminishing power ; that countries are ever 
strongest which are internally powerful : that colo- 
nies, by draining away the brave and enterprising, 
leave the country in the hands of the timid and 
avaricious ; that walls give little protection, unless 
manned with resolution ; that too much commerce 
may injure a nation as well as too little ; and that 
there is a wide difference between a conquering 
and a flourishing empire. Adieu. 



LETTER XXVI. 



To the Same. 



Though fond of many acquaintances, I desire 
an intimacy only with a few. The man in black 
whom 1 have often mentioned, is one whose friend- 
ship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses 
my esteem. His manners, it is true, are tinctured 
with some strange inconsistencies ; and he may be 
justly termed a humorist in a nation of humorists. 
Though he is generous even to profusion, he af- 
fects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and 
prudence ; though his conversation be replete with 
the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart is di- 
lated with the most unbounded love. I have known 
him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek 
was glowing with compassion ; and, while his looks 
were softened into pity, I have heard him use the 
language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some 
affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of hav- 
ing such dispositions from nature; but he is the 
only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his 
natural benevolence. He takes as -much pains to 
hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal 
his indifference ; but on every unguarded moment 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



277 



the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most su- 
perficial observer. 

In one of our late excursions into the country, 
happening to discourse upon the provision that v?as 
made for the poor in England, he seemed amazed 
how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly 
weak as to relieve occasional objects of charity, 
when the laws had made such ample provision for 
their support. In every parish-house, says he, the 
poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and a bed 
to lie on ; they want no more, I desire no more 
myself; yet still they seem discontented. I am 
surprised at the inactivity of our magistrates, in not 
taking up such vagrants, who are only a weight 
upon the industrious : 1 am surprised that the peo- 
ple are found to relieve them, when they must be 
at the same time sensible that it, in some measure, 
encourages idleness, extravagance, and imposture. 
Were I to advise any man for whom I had the least 
regard, I would caution him by all means not to be 
imposed upon by their false pretences : let me as- 
sure you, sir, they are impostors, every one of them, 
and rather merit a prison than relief. 

He was proceeding in this strain earnestly, to 
dissuade me from an imprudence of which 1 am 
seldom guilty, when an old man, who still had 
about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored 
our compassion. He assured us that he was no 
common beggar, but forced into the shameful pro- 
fession, to support a dying wife, and five hungry 
children. Being prepossessed against such false- 
hoods; his story had not the least influence upon 
me ; but it was quite otherwise with the man in 
black: I could see it visibly operate upon his coun- 
tenance, and effectually interrupt his harrangue. 
I could easily perceive that his heart burned to re- 
lieve the five starving children, but he seemed 
ashamed to discover his weakness to me. While 
he thus hesitated between compassion and pride, I 
pretended to look another way, and he seized this 
opportunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of 
silver, bidding him at the same time, in order that 
I should not hear, go work for his bread, and not 
tease passengers with such impertinent falsehoods 
for the future. 

As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, he 
continued, as we proceeded, to rail against beggars 
withasmuch animosity as before; he threw in some 
episodes on his own amazing prudence and econo- 
my, with his profound sldll in discovering impos- 
tors ; he explained the manner in which he would 
deal with beggars were he a magistrate, hinted at 
enlarging some of the prisons for their reception, 
and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by 
beggar-men. He was beginning a third to the same 
purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once 
more crossed our walks, deiiring our pity, and 
blessing our hmbs. 1 was for going on without 
taking any notice, but my friend looking wistfully 



upon the poor pethioner, bid me stop, and he would 
show me with how much ease he could at any time 
detect an impostor. 

He now therefore assumed a look of importance, 
and in an angry tone began to examine the sailor, 
demanding in what engagement he was thus disa- 
bled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor 
replied in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been 
an officer on board a private ship of war, and that 
he had lost his leg abroad, in defence of those who 
did nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's 
importance vanished in a moment; he had not a 
single question more to ask; he now only studied 
what method he should take to relieve him unob- 
served. He had, however, no easy part to act, as 
he was obliged to preserve the appearance of ill- 
nature before me, and yet relieve himself by re- 
lieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a furious 
look upon some bundles of chips which the fellow 
carried in a string at his back, my friend demanded 
how he sold his matches ; but, not waiting for a 
reply, desired in a surly tone to have a shilling's 
worth. The sailor seemed at first surprised at his 
demand, but soon recollected himself, and present- 
ing his whole bundle, " Here, master," says he, 
"take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bar- 
gain." 

It is impossible to desciibe with what an air of 
triumph my friend marched off with his new pur- 
chase : he assured me, that he was firmly of opi- 
nion that those fellows must have stolen their goods, 
who could thus afford to sell them for half value. 
He informed me of several different uses to which 
those chips might be applied ; he expatiated largely 
upon the savings that would result from lighting 
candles with a match, instead of thrusting them 
into the fire. He averred, that he would as soon 
have parted with a tooth as his money to those 
vagabonds, unless for some valuable consideration, 
lean not tell how long this panegyric upon frugahty 
and matches might have continued, had not his at- 
tention been called off by another object more dis- 
tressful than either of the former. A woman in 
rags, with one child in her arms and another on 
her back, was attempting to sing ballads, but with 
such a mournful voice, that it was diflScult to de- 
termine whether she was singing or crying. A 
wretch, who in the deepest distress still aimed at 
good- humour, was an object my friend was by no 
means capable of withstanding : his vivacity and 
his discourse were instantly interrupted ; upon this 
occasion, his very dissimulation had forsaken him. 
Even in my presence he immediately applied his 
hands to his pockets, in order to relieve her; but 
guess his confusion when he found he had already 
given away all the money he carried about him to 
former objects. The miserj' painted in the woman's 
visage, was not half so strongly expressed as the 
agony in his. He continued to search for some 



'27S 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting 
himself, with a face of ineffable good-nature, as he 
had no money, he put into her hands his shiUing's 
worth of matches. 



LETTER XXVII. 

To the Same. 

As there appeared to be something reluctantly 
good in the character of ray companion, I must 
own it surprised me what could be his motives fur 
thus concealing virtues which others take such pains 
to display. I was unable to repress my desire of 
knowing the history of a man who thus seemed to 
act under continual restraint, and whose benevo- 
lence was rather the effect of appetite than reason. 

It was not, however, till after repeated solicita- 
tions he thought proper to gratify my curiosity. 
"If you are fond," says he, "of hearing hair- 
breath escapes, my history must certainly please ; 
for I have been for twenty years upon the very 
verge of starving, without ever being starved. 

" My father, the younger son of a good family, 
was possessed of a small living in the church. 
His education was above his fortune, and his ge- 
nerosity greater than his education. Poor as he 
was, he had his flatterers still poorer than himself; 
for every dinner he gave them, they returned an 
equivalent in praise, and this was all he wanted 
The same ambition that actuates a monarch at the 
head of an army, influenced my father at the head 
of his table; he told the story of the ivy -tree, and 
that was laughed at ; he repeated the jest of the 
two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the 
company laughed at that ; but the story of Taffy 
in the sedan-chair was sure to set the table in a 
roar: thus his pleasure increased in proportion to 
the pleasure he gave ; he loved all the world, and 
he fancied all the world loved him. 

"As his fortune was but small, he lived up to 
the very extent of it ; he had no intentions of leav- 
ing his children money, for that was dross ; he was 
resolved they should have learning; for learning, 
he used to observe, was better than silver or gold. 
For this purpose, he undertook to instruct us him- 
self; and took as much pains to form our morals as 
to improve our understanding. We were told, that 
universal benevolence was what first cemented so 
ciety ; we were taught to consider all the wants of 
mankind as our own; to regard the "human face 
divine" with affection and esteem ; he wound us 
up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us 
incapable of withstanding the slightest impulse 
made either by real or fictitious distress ; in a word, 
we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving 
away thousands, before we were taught the more 
necessary qualifications oi getting a farthing. 



" I can not avoid imagining, that thus refined by 
his lessons out of all my suspicion, and divested of 
even all the httle cunning which nature had given 
me, I resembled, upon my first entrance into the 
busy and insidious world, one of those gladiators 
who were exposed without armovu: in the amphi- 
theatre at Rome. My father, however, who had 
only seen the world on one side, seemed to triiunph 
in my superior discernment; though ray whole 
stock of wisdom consisted in being able to talk like 
himself upon subjects that once were useful, be- 
cause they were then topics of the busy world, but 
that now were utterly useless, because connected 
with the busy world no longer. 

"The first opportunity he had of finding his ex- 
pectations disappointed, was in the very middling 
figure I made in the university; he had flattered 
himself that he should soon see me rising into the , 
foremost rank in literary reputation, but was mor- 
tified to find me utterly unnoticed and unknown. 
His disappointment might have been partly ascrib- 
ed to his having overrated my talents, and partly 
to my dislike of mathematical reasonings, at a time 
when my imagination and memory, yet unsatisfied, 
were more eager after new objects, than desirous 
of reasoning upon those I knew. This did not, 
however, please my tutor, who observed, indeed, 
that I was a little dull ; but at the same time allow- 
ed, that I seemed to be very good-natured, and had 
no harm in me. 

"After I had resided at college seven years, my 
father died, and left me — hisblessing. Thus shoved 
from shore without ill-nature to protect, or cunning 
to guide, or proper stores to subsist me in so dan- 
gerous a voyage, I was obliged to embark in the 
wide world at twenty-two. But, in order to settle 
in life, my friends advised (for they always advise 
when they begin to despise us), they advised me, 
I say, to go into orders. 

" To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked 
a short one, or a black coat, when I generally 
dressed in brown, I thought was such a restraint 
upon ray liberty, that I absolutely rejected the pro- 
posal. A priest in England is not the same mor- 
tified creature with a bonze in China : with us, not 
he that fasts best, but eats best, is reckoned the 
best liver ; yet 1 rejected a life of luxury, indolence, 
and ease, from no other consideration but that 
boyish one of dress. So that my friends were now 
perfectly satisfied I was undone; and yet they 
thought it a pity for one who had not the least 
harm in him, and was so very good-natured. 

"Poverty naturally begets dependence, and I 
was admitted as flatterer to a great man. At first 
I was surprised, that the situation of a flatterer at 
a great man's table could be thought disagreeable: 
there was no great trouble in hstening attentively 
when his lordship spoke, and laughing when he 
looked round for applause. This even good man- 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



279 



nets might have obUged me to perform. I found, 
however, too soon, that his lordship was a greater 
dunce than myself; and from that very moment 
flattery was at an end. I now rather aimed at set- 
ting him right, than at receiving his absurdities 
with submission ; to flatter those we do not know, 
is an easy task ; but to flatter our intimate acquaint- 
ances, all whose foibles are strongly in our eye, is 
drudgery insupportable. Every time I now open- 
ed my lips in praise, my falsehood went to my con- 
science : his lordship soon perceived me to be very 
unfit for service ; I was therefore discharged ; my 
patron at the same time being graciously pleased 
to observe, that he believed I was tolerably good- 
natured, and had not the least harm in me. 

"Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse to 
love. A young lady, who hved with her aunt, and 
was possessed of a pretty fortune in her own dis 
posal, had given me, as I fancied, some reason to 
expect success. The symptoms by which I was 
guided were striking. She had always laugh- 
ed with me at her awkward acquaintance, and at 
her aunt among the number; she always observed 
that a man of sense would make a better husband 
than a fool, and I as constantly applied the obser- 
vation in my own favour. She continually talked, 
in my company, of friendship and the beauties of 
the mind, and spoke of Mr. Shrimp my rival's 
high-heeled shoes with detestation. These were 
circumstances which I thought strongly in my fa- 
vour; so, after resolving, and re-resolving, I had 
courage enough to tell her my mind. Miss heard 
my proposal with serenity, seeming at the same 
time to study the figures of her fan. Out at last 
it came. There was but one small objection to 
complete our happiness, which was no more than 

that she was married three months before to 

Mr. Shrimp, with high-heeled shoes ! By way of 
consolation, however, she observed, that though I 
was disappointed in her, my addresses to her aunt 
would probably kindle her into sensibility : as the 
old lady always allowed me to be very good-natured 
and not to have the least share of harm in me. 

"Yet still I had friends, numerous friends, and 
to them 1 was resolved to apply. O Friendship ! 
thou fond soother of the human breast, to thee we 
fly in every calamity ; to thee the wretched seek for 
succour; on thee the care-tired son of misery fond- 
ly relies; from thy kind assistance the unfortunate 
always hopes relief, and may be ever sure of — dis- 
appointment ! My first application was to a city- 
scrivener, who had frequently offered to lend me 
money, when he knew I did not want it. I in- 
formed him, that now was the time to put his 
friendship to the test ; that I wanted to borrow a 
couple of hundreds for a certain occasion, and was 
resolved to take it up from him. And pray, sir, 
cried my friend, do you want all this money ! In- 
deed I never wanted it more, returned I. I am 



sorry for that, cries the scrivener, with all my 
heart ; for they who want money when they come 
to borrow, will always want money when they 
should come to pay. 

" From him I flew with indignation to one of the 
best friends I had in the worid, and made the same 
request. Indeed, Mr. Dry-bone, cries my friend, 
I always thought it would come to this. You know, 
sir, I would not advise you but for your own good ; 
but your conduct has hitherto been ridiculous in 
the highest degree, and some of your acquaintance 
always thought you a very silly fellow. Let me 
see, you want two hundred pounds. Do you only 
want two hundred, sir, exactly? To confess a 
truth, returned I, I shall want three hundred ; but 
then I have another friend, from whom I can bor- 
row the rest. Why then, replied my friend, if you 
would take my advice (and you know I should not 
presume to advise you but for your own good), I 
would recommend it to you to borrow the whole 
sum from that other friend ; and then one note will 
serve for all, you know. 

"Poverty now began to come fast upon me ; yet 
instead of growing more provident or cautious, as 
1 grew poor, I became every day more indolent and 
simple. A friend was arrested for fifty pounds ; I 
was unable to extricate him, except by becoming 
his bail. When at liberty, he fled from his credi- 
tors, and left me to take his place. In prison I ex- 
pected greater satisfactions than I had enjoyed at 
large. I hoped to converse with men in this new 
world, simple and believing Uke myself, but I found 
them as cunning and as cautious as those in the 
world I had left behind. They sponged up my 
money whilst it lasted, borrowed my coals, and 
never paid for them, and cheated me when I play- 
ed at cribbage. All this was done because they 
beHeved me to be very good-natured, and knew that 
1 had no harm in me. 

'Upon my first entrance into this mansion, 
which is to some the abode of despair, I felt no 
sensations different from those I experienced abroad. 
I was now on one side the door, and those who 
were unconfined were on the other : this was all 
the difference between us. At first, indeed, I felt 
some uneasiness, in considering how I should be 
able to provide this week for the wants of the week 
ensuing ; but, after some time, if I found myself 
sure of eating one day, I never troubled my head 
how I was to be supplied another. I seized every 
precarious meal with the utmost good-humour; 
indulged no rants of spleen at my situation ; never 
called down Heaven and all the stars to behold me 
dining upon a halfpenny-worth of radishes; my 
very companions were taught to beheve that I liked 
salad better than mutton. I contented myself with 
thinking, that all my life I should either eat white 
bread or brown ; considered all that happened was 
best ; laughed when I was not in pain, took the 



280 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the world as it went, and read Tacitus often, for 
want of more boolis and company. 

" How long I might have continued in this tor- 
pid state of simplicity, I can not tell, had I not been 
roused by seeing an old acquaintance, whom 1 
knew to he a prudent blockhead, preferred to a 
place in the government. I now found that 1 had 
pursued a wrong track, and that the true way of 
being able to relieve others, was first to aim at in- 
dependence myself: my immediate care, therefore, 
was to leave my present habitation, and make an 
entire reformation in my conduct and behaviour. 
For a free, open, undesigning deportment, I put 
on that or closeness, prudence, and economy. One 
of the most heroic actions 1 ever performed, and 
for which I shall praise myself as long as I live, 
was the refusing half-a-crown to an old acquaint- 
ance, at the time when he wanted it, and 1 had it 
to spare : for this alone 1 deserve to be decreed an 
ovation. 

" I now therefore pursued a course of uninter- 
rupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was 
consequently invited to twenty. I soon began to 
get the character of a saving hunks that had money, 
and insensibly grew mto esteem. Neighbours 
have asked my advice in the disposal of their 
daughters ; and I have always taken care not to 
give any. I have contracted a friendship with an 
alderman, only by observing, that if we take a far- 
thing from a thousand pounds, it will be a thou- 
sand pounds no longer. I have been invited to a 
pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy ; 
and am now actually upon treaty of marriage with 
a rich widow, for only having observed that the 
bread was rising. If ever I am asked a question, 
whether I know it or not, instead of answering, I 
only smile and look wise. If a charity is proposed, 
I go about with the hat, but put notliing in myself. 
If a wretch sohcits my pity, I observe that the 
world is fiUed with unpostors, and take a certain 
method of not being deceived, by never relieving. 
In short, 1 now find the truest way of finding es- 
teem, even from the indigent, is to give away no- 
thing, and thus have much in our power to give." 



LETTER XVIII. 



Lately, in company with my friend in black, 
whose conversation is now both my amusement 
and instruction, I could not avoid observing the 
great numbers of old bachelors and maiden ladies 
with which this city seems to be overrun. Sure, 
marriage, said I, is not sufficiently encouraged, or 
we should never behold such crowds of battered 
beaux, and decayed coquettes, still attempting to 



drive a trade they have been so long unfit for, and 
swarming upon the gaiety of the age. I behold an 
old bachelor in the most contemptible light, as an 
animal that lives upon the common stock without 
contributing his share : he is a beast of prey, and 
the laws should make use of as many stratagems, 
and as much force, to drive the reluctant savage 
into the toils, as the Indians when they hunt the 
rhinoceros. The mob should be permitted to 
halloo after him, boys might play tricks on him 
with impunity, every well-bred company should 
laugh at him ; and if, when turned of sixty, he of- 
fered to make love, his mistress might spit in his 
face, or, what would be perhaps a greater punish- 
ment, should fairly grant the favour. 

As for old maids, continued I, they should not 
be treated with so much severit}', because I sup- 
pose none would be so if they could. No lady in 
her senses would choose to make a subordinate 
figure at christenings or lyings-in, when she might 
be the principal herself ; nor curry favour with a 
sister-in-law, when she might command a husband; 
nor toil in preparing custards, when she might lie 
a-bed, and give directions how they ought to be 
made; nor stifle all her sensations in demure for- 
mality, when she might, with matrimonial free- 
dom, shake her acquaintance by the hand, and 
wink at a double entendre. No lady could be so 
very silly as to live single, if she could help it. I 
consider an unmarried lady, declining into the vale 
of years, as one of those charming countries bor- 
dering on China, that lies waste for want of proper 
inhabitants. We are not to accuse the country, 
but the ignorance of its neighbours, who are insen- 
sible of its beauties, though at liberty to enter and 
cultivate the soil. 

"Indeed, sir," repUed my companion, "you are 
very little acquainted with the English ladies, to 
think they are old maids against their will. I dare 
venture to aflSrm, that you can hardly select one 
of them all, but has had frequent offers of mar- 
riage, which either pride or avarice has not made 
her reject. Instead of thinking it a disgrace, they 
take every occasion to boast of their former cruel- 
ty : a soldier does not exult more when he counts 
over the wounds he has received, than a female 
veteran when she relates the wounds she has for- 
merly given: exhaustless when she begins a nar- 
rative of the former death-dealing power of her 
eyes. She tells of the knight in gold lace, who died 
with a single frown, and never rose again till — he 
was married to his maid ; of the 'squire, who, being 
cruelly denied, in a rage flew to the window, and 
lifting up the sash, threw himself in an agony — 
into his arm chair ; of the parson, who, crossed in 
love, resolutely swallowed opium, which banished 
the stings of despised love — by making him sleep. 
In short, she talks over her former losses with 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



281 



pleasure, and, like some tradesmen, finds consola- 
tion in the many bankruptcies she has suffered. 

"For this reason, whenever I see a superan- 
nuated beauty still unmarried, I tacitly accuse her 
either of pride, avarice, coquetry, or affectation. 
There's Miss Jenny Tinderbox, I once remember 
her to have had some beauty, and a moderate for- 
tune. Her elder sister happened to marry a man 
of qualit)--, and this seemed as a statute of virginity 
against poor Jane. Because there was one lucky 
hit in the family, she was resolved not to disgrace 
it by introducing a tradesman. By thus rejecting 
her equals, and neglected or despised by her su- 
periors, she now acts in the capacity of tutoress to 
her sister's children, and undergoes the drudgery 
of three servants, without receiving the wages of 
one. 

" Miss Squeeze was a pawnbroker's daughter ; 
her father had early taught her that money was a 
very good thing, and left her a moderate fortune at 
his death. She was so perfectly sensible of the 
value of what she had got, that she was resolved 
never to part with a farthing without an equality 
on the part of the suitor : she thus refused several 
offers made her by people who wanted to better 
themselves, as the saying is ; and grew old and ill- 
natured, without ever considering that she should 
have made an abatement in her pretensions, from 
her face being pale, and marked with the small- 
pox. 

"Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, had 
beauty, with fortune and family. But fond of 
conquests, she passed from triumph to triumph; 
she had read plays and romances, and there had 
learned, that a plain man of common sense was no 
better than a fool ; such she refused, and sighed 
only for the gay, giddy, inconstant, and thought- 
less: after she had thus rejected hundreds who 
liked her, and sighed for hundreds who despised 
her, she found herself insensibly deserted ; at pre- 
sent she is company only for her aunts and cou- 
sins, and sometimes makes one in a country dance, 
with only one of the chairs for a partner, casts off 
round a joint-tool, and sets to a corner cupboard. 
In a word, she is treated with civil contempt from 
every quarter, and placed, like a piece of old- 
fashioned lumber, merely to fill up a corner. 

"But Sophronia, the sagacious Sophronia, how 
shall I mention her 7 She was taught to love 
Greek, and hate the men from her very infancy : 
she has rejected fine gentlemen because they were 
not pedants, and pedants because they were not 
fine gentlemen : her exquisite sensibility has taught 
her to discover every fault in every lover, and her 
inflexible justice has prevented her pardoning 
them; thus she rejected several offers, till the 
wrinkles of age had overtaken her; and now, with- 
out one good feature in her face, she talks inces- 
santly of the beauties of the mind." Farewell. 



LETTER XXIX. 



From the Same. 



Were we to estimate the learning of the English 
by the number of books that are every day pub- 
lished among them, perhaps no country, not even 
China itself, could equal them in this particular. 
I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new 
books published in one day; which, upon compu- 
tation, makes eight thousand three hundred and 
ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not 
confined to one single science, but embrace the 
whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathe- 
matics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, 
are all comprised in a manual not larger than 
that in which our children are taught the letters. 
If then we suppose the learned of England to read 
but an eighth part of the works which daily come 
from the press (and surely none can pretend to 
learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every 
scholar will read a thousand books in one year. 
From such a calculation, you may conjecture what 
an amazing fund of literature a man must be pos- 
sessed of, who thus reads three new books every 
day, not one of which but contains all the good 
things that ever were said or written. 

And yet I know not how it happens, but the 
English are not in reality so learned as would seem 
from this calculation. We meet but few who know 
all arts and sciences to perfection; whether it is 
that the generality are incapable of such extensive 
knowledge, or that the authors of those books are 
not adequate instructors. In China, the emperor 
himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the 
kingdom who profess authorship. In England, 
every man may be an author that can write ; for 
they have by law a liberty not only of saying what 
they please, but of being also as dull as they please. 

Yesterday, I testified my surprise to the man in 
black, where writers could be found in sufficient 
number to throw off the books I daily saw crowd- 
ing from the press. I at first imagined that their 
learned seminaries might take this method of in- 
structing the world. But, to obviate this objection, 
my companion assured me, that the doctors of col- 
leges never wrote, and that some of them had 
actually forgot their reading ; but if you desire, 
continued he, to see a collection of authors, I fancy 
I can introduce you this evening to a club, which 
assembles every Saturday at seven, at the sign of 
the broom, near Islington, to talk over the business 
of the last, and the entertainment of the week 
ensuing. I accepted his invitation; we walked 
together, and entered the house some time before 
the usual hour for the company assembling. 

My friend took this opportunity of letting me 
into the characters of the principal members of the 
club, not even the host excepted; who, it seems, 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



was once an author himself, but preferred by a 
bookseller to this situation as a reward for his for- 
mer services. 

The first person, said he, of our society, is 
Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people 
think him a profound- scholar ; but as he seldom 
speaks, I can not be positive in that particular : he 
generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his 
pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very 
good company. I'm told he writes indexes to per- 
fection, he makes essays on the origin of evil, phi- 
losophical inquiries upon any subject, and draws 
up an answer to any book upon twenty-four hours' 
warning. You may distinguish him from the rest 
of the company by his long gray wig, and the blue 
handkerchief round his neck. 

The next to him in merit and esteem is Tim 
Syllabub, a droll creature ; he sometimes shines as 
a star of the first magnitude among the choice 
spirits of the age : he is reckoned equally excellent 
at a rebus, a riddle, a bawdy song, and a hymn for 
the Tabernacle. You will know him by his shab- 
by finery, his powdered wig, dirty shirt, and broken 
silk stockings. 

After him succeeds Mr. Tibs, a very useful 
hand ; he writes receipts for the bite of a mad dog, 
and throws off an eastern tale to perfection: he 
understands the 6imness of an author as well as 
any man, for no bookseller alive can cheat him. 
You may distinguish him by the peculiar clumsi- 
ness of his figure, and the coarseness of his coat : 
however, though it be coarse (as he frequently tells 
the company) he has paid for it. 

Lawyer Squint is the politician of the society; 
he makes speeches for Parliament, writes addresses 
to his fellow-subjects, and letters to noble com- 
manders; he gives the history of every new play, 
and finds seasonable thoughts upon every occasion. 
My companion was proceeding in his description 
when the host came running in with terror on his 
countenance to tell us, that the door was beset with 
bailiffs. If that be the case then, says my com- 
panion, we had as good be going ; for 1 am positive 
we shall not see one of the company this night. 
Wherefore, disappointed, we were both obliged to 
return home, he to enjoy the oddities which com- 
pose his character alone, and I to write as usual to 
my friend the occurrences of the day. Adieu. 



LETTER XXX, 

From the Same. 
By my last advices from Moscow, I find the 
caravan has not yet departed for China: I still con- 
tinue to write, expecting that you may receive a 
large number of my letters at once. In them you 
will find rather a minute detail of English pecu- 
liarities, than a general picture of their manners or 



dispositions, Happy it were for mankind if all 
travellers would thus, instead of characterizing a 
people in general terms, lead us into a detail of 
those minute circumstances which first influenced 
their opinion. The genius of a country should be 
investigated with a kind of experimental inquiry : by 
this means, we should have more precise and just 
notions of foreign nations, and detect travellers 
themselves when they happened to form wrong 
conclusions. 

My friend and I repeated our visit to the club of 
authors; where, upon our entrance, we found the 
members all assembled, and engaged in a loud 
debate. 

The poet, in shabby finery, holding a manuscript 
in his hand, was earnestly endeavouring to persuade 
the company to hear him read the first book of an 
heroic poem, which he had composed the day 
before. But against this all the members very 
warmly objected. They knew no reason why any 
member of the club should be indulged with a 
particular hearing, when many of them had pub- 
lished whole volumes which had never been looked 
in. They insisted, that the law should be observed 
where reading in company was expressly noticed. 
It was in vain that the poet pleaded the peculiar 
merit of his piece; he spoke to an assembly in- 
sensible to all his remonstrances : the book of laws 
was opened, and read by the secretary, where it 
was expressly enacted, "That whatsoever poet, 
speech-maker, critic, or historian, should presume 
to engage the company by reading his own works, 
he was to lay down sixpence previous to opening 
the manuscript, and should be charged one shilling 
an hour while he continued reading: the said 
shilling to be equally distributed among the com- 
pany as a recompense for their trouble." 

Our poet seemed at first to shrink at the penalty, 
hesitating for some time whether he should deposit 
the fine, or shut up the poem; but looking round, 
and perceiving two strangers in the room, liis love 
of fame outweighed his prudence, and, laying down 
the sum by law established, he insisted on his pre- 
rogative. 

A profound silence ensuing, he began by ex- 
plaining his design. " Gentlemen," says he, " the 
present piece is not one of your common epic poems, 
which come from the press lilce paper-kites in sum- 
mer: there are none of your Turnus's or Dido's in 
it ; it is an heroical description of Nature. I only 
beg you'll endeavour to make your souls in unison 
with mine, and hear with the same enthusiasm 
with which I have written. The poem begins with 
the description of an author's bedchamber; the pic- 
ture was sketched in my own apartment : for you 
must know, gentlemen, that I am myself the hero." 
Then putting himself into the attitude of an orator, 
with all the emphasis of voice and action, he pro- 
ceeded : 



CITIZEN OP THE "WORLD. 



283 



" Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Piirson's black chara- 

paigne, 
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ; 
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. 
The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; 
A window patch' d with paper lent a ray, 
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
The sanded floor, that grits beneath the tread ; 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
The royal game of goose was there in view. 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
AnO brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black 

face. 
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; 
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 
And five crack'd tea-cups dress' d the chimney 

board ; 
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 
A cap by night — a stocking all the day!" 

With this last line he seemed so much elated, 
that he was unable to proceed. " There, gentle- 
men," cries he, "there is a description for you; 
Rabelais' bed-chamber is but a fool to it. 

A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! 

There is sound, and sense, and truth, and nature, 
in the trifling compass often syllables." 

He was too much employed in self-admiration 
to observe the company; who by nods, winks, 
shrugs, and stifled laughter, testified every mark 
of contempt. He turned severally to each for their 
opinion, and found all, however, ready to applaud 
One swore it was inimitable ; another said it was 
damn'd fine ; and a third cried out in a rapture 
Carissimo. At last, addressing himself to the 
president, " And pray, Mr. Squint," says he, " let 
us have your opinion." " Mine! " answered the 
president (taking the manuscript out of the au- 
thor's hand), " May this glass suffocate me, but I 
think it equal to any thing I have seen ; and I fan- 
cy (continued he, doubling up the poem and forcing 
it into the author's pocket) that you will get great 
honour when it comes out ; so I shall beg leave to 
put it in. We will not intrude upon your good- 
nature, in desiring to hear more of it at present; 
ex ungue Herculem, we are satisfied, perfectly 
satisfied." The author made two or three attempts 
to pull it out a second time, and the president made 
as many to prevent him. Thus, though with re- 
luctance, he was at last obliged to sit down, con- 
tented with the commendations for which he had 
paid. 

When this tempest of poetry and praise was 
blown over, one of the company changed the sub- 



ject, by wondering how any man could be so dull 
as to write poetry at present, since prose itself 
would hardly pay : " Would you think it, gentle- 
men," continued he, " I have actually written last 
week, sixteen prayers, twelve bawdy jests, and 
three sermons, all at the rate of sixpence a-piece; 
and what is still more extraordinary, the bookseller 
has lost by the bargain. Such sermons would 
once have gained me a prebend's stall; but now, 
alas! we have neither piety, taste, nor humour, 
among us. Positively, if this season does not turn 
out better than it has begun, unless the ministry 
commit some blunders to furnish us with a new 
topic of abuse, I shall resume my old business of 
working at the press, instead of finding it employ- 
ment. 

The whole club seemed to join in condemning 
the season as one of the worst that had come for 
some time : a gentleman particularly observed that 
the nobility were never known to subscribe worse 
than at present. " I know not how it happens," 
said he, " though I follow them up as close as pos- 
sible, yet I can hardly get a single subscription in 
a week. The houses of the great are as inaccessi- 
ble as a frontier garrison at midnight. ; I never see 
a nobleman's door half-opened, that some surly 
porter or footman does not stand full in the breach. 
I was yesterday to wait with a subscription-propo- 
sal upon my Lord Squash the Creolin. I had 
posted myself at his door the whole morning, and 
just as he was getting into his coach, thrust my 
proposal snug into his hand, folded up in the form 
of a letter from myself. He just glanced at the 
superscription, and not knowing the hand, con- 
signed it to his val^t de chambre; this respectable 
personage, treated it as his master, and put it into 
the hands of the porter ; the porter grasped my pro- 
posal frowning; and measuring my figure from 
top to toe, put it back into my own hands un- 
opened." 

" To the devil 1 pitch all the nobility," cries a lit- 
tle man in a peculiar accent, " I am sure they have 
of late used nie most scurvily. You must know, 
gentlemen, some time ago, upon the arrival of a 
certain noble duke from his travels, I sat myself 
down, and vamped up a fine flaunting poetical 
panegyric, which I had written in such a strain, 
that I fancied it would have even wheedled milk 
from a mouse. In this I represented the whole king- 
dom welcoming his grace to his native soil, not 
forgetting the loss France and Italy would sustain 
in their arts by his departure. I expected to 
touch for a bank-bill at least; so folding up my 
verses in gilt paper, 1 gave my last half-crown to 
a genteel servant to be the bearer. My letter was 
safely conveyed to his grace, and the servant, after 
four hours' absence, during which time I led the 
Ufe of a fiend, returned with a letter four times as 
big as mine. Guess my ecstasy at the prospect of 



284 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



so fine a return. I eagerly took the packet into 
my hands, that trembled to receive it. I kept it 
some time unopened before me, brooding over the 
expected treasure it contained ; vsrhen, opening it, 
as I hope to be saved, gentlemen, his grace had 
sent me in payment for my poem, no bank-bills, 
but six copies of verse, each longer than mine, ad- 
dressed to him upon the same occasion." 

" A nobleman," cries a member, who had hith- 
erto been silent, " is created as much for the con- 
fusion of us authors, as the catch-pole. I'll tell 
you a story, gentlemen, which is as true as that 
this pipe is made of clay. When I was delivered 
of my first book, I owed my tailor for a suit of 
clothes; but that is nothing new, you know, and 
may be any man's case, as well as mine. Well, 
owing him for a suit of clothes, and hearing 
that my book took very well, he sent for his mo- 
ney, and insisted upon being paid immediately; 
though I was at that time rich in fame, for my 
book ran like wild-fire, yet I was very short in 
money, and being unable to satisfy his demand, 
prudently resolved to keep my chamber, preferring 
a prison of my own choosing at home, to one of 
my tailor's ihoosing abroad. In vain the bailiffs 
used all their arts to decoy me from my citadel ; in 
vain they sent to let me know that a gentleman 
wanted to speak with me at the next tavern ; in vain 
they came with an urgent message from my aunt 
in the country ; in vain I was told that a particular 
friend was at the point of death, and desired to 
take his last farewell; — I was deaf, insensible, 
rock, adamant; the bailiffs could make no impres- 
sion on my hard heart, for I effectually kept my 
liberty by never stin-ing out of the room. 

" This was very well for a fortnight ; when one 
morning I received a most splendid message from 
the Earl of Doomsday, importing, that he had read 
my book, and was in raptures with every Une of it; 
he impatiently longed to see the author, and had 
some designs which might turn out greatly to my 
advantage. I paused upon the contents of this 
message, and found there could be no deceit, for 
the card was gilt at the edges, and the bearer, I 
was told, had quite the looks of a gentleman. 
Witness, ye powers, how my heart triumphed at 
my own importance ! I saw a long perspective of 
felicity before me ; I applauded the taste of the 
times which never saw genius forsaken; I had pre- 
pared a set introductory speech for the occasion; 
five glaring compliments for his lordship, and two 
more modest for myself. The next morning, 
therefore, in order to be punctual to my appoint- 
ment, I took coach, and ordered the fellow to drive 
to the street and house mentioned in his lordship's 
address. I had the precaution to pull up the win- 
dow as I went along, to keep off" the busy part of 



ever, the wished-for moment of its stopping ar- 
rived : this for some time I impatiently expected, 
and letting down the window in a transport, in 
order to take a previous view of his lordship's 
magnificent palace and situation, 1 found, poi- 
son to my sight! I found myself, not in an 
elegant street, but a paltry lane ; not at a noble 
man's door, but at the door of a sponging house : I 
found the coachman had all this while been just 
driving me to gaol ; and I saw the bailiff", with a 
devil's face, coming out to secure me." 

To a philosopher, no circumstance, however 
trifling, is too minute ; he finds instruction and en- 
tertainment in occurrences which are passed over 
by the rest of mankind as low, trite, and indLff"er- 
ent ; it is from the number of these particulars, 
which to many appear insignificant, that he is at 
last enabled to form general conclusions : this, 
therefore, must be my excuse for sending so far as 
China, accounts of manners and follies, which, 
though minute in their own nature, serve more 
truly to characterize this people than histories of 
their public treaties, courts, ministers, negotiations, 
and ambassadors. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXI. 



Fi'om the Same. 



The English have not yet brought the art of 
gardening to the same perfection with the Chinese, 
but have lately begun to imitate them ; nature is 
now followed with greater assiduity than formerly ; 
the trees are suff"ered to shoot out into the utmost 
luxuriance ; the streams, no longer forced from their 
native beds, are permitted to wind along the val- 
leys ; spontaneous flowers take place of the finished 
parterre, and the enamelled meadow of the shaven 
green. 

Yet still the English are far behind us in this 
charming art ; their designers have not yet attained 
a power of uniting instruction with beauty. A 
European will scarcely conceive my meaning, when 
I say that there is scarcely a garden in China 
which does not contain some fine moral, couched 
under the general design, where one is taught wis- 
dom as he walks, and feels the force of some noble 
truth, or delicate precept, resulting from the dis- 
position of the groves, streams, or grottos. Permit 
me to illustrate what I mean by a description of my 
gardens at CLuamsi. My heart still hovers round 
those scenes of former happiness with pleasure ; 
and I find a satisfaction in enjoying them at this 
distance, though but in imagination. 

You descended from the house between two 



groves of trees, planted in such a manner, that 
mankind, and, big with expectation, fancied the I they were impenetrable to the eye; while on each 
coach never went fast enough. At length, how- 1 hand the way was adorned with all that was beau- 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



285 



tiful in porcelain, statuary, and painting. This 
passage from the house opened into an area sur 
rounded with rocks, flowers, trees, and shrubs, but 
all so disposed as if each was the spontaneous pro- 
duction of nature. As you proceeded forward on 
this lawn, to your right and left hand were two 
gates, opposite each other, of very different archi- 
tecture and design, and before you lay a temple, 
built rather with minute elegance than ostenta- 
tion. 

The right hand gate was planned with the ut- 
most simplicity, or rather rudeness : ivy clasped 
round the pillars, the baleful cypress hung over it; 
time seemed to have destroyed all the smoothness 
and regularity of the stone; two champions with 
lifted clubs appeared in the act of guarding its ac- 
cess ; dragons and serpents were seen in the most 
hideous attitudes, to deter the spectator from ap- 
proaching ; and the perspective view that lay be- 
hind, seemed dark and gloomy to the last degree ; 
the stranger was tempted to enter only from the 
motto — Pervia Virtuti. 

The opposite gate was formed in a very different 
manner; the architecture was light, elegant, and 
inviting ; flowers hung in wreaths round the pil- 
lars; all was finished in the most exact and mas- 
terly manner ; the very stone of which it was built 
still preserved its polish ; nymphs, wrought by the 
hand of a master, in the most alluring attitudes, 
beckoned the stranger to approach ; while all that 
lay behind, as far as the eye could reach, seemed 
gay, luxuriant, and capable of affording endless 
pleasure. The motto itself contributed to invite 
him ; for over the gate were written these words — 
Facilis Descensus. 

By this time I fancy you begin to perceive, that 
the gloomy gate was designed to represent the road 
to Virtue ; the opposite, the more agreeable passage 
to Vice. It is but natural to suppose, that the 
spectator was always tempted to enter by the gate 
which offered him so many allurements. I always 
in these cases left him to his choice ; but generally 
found that he took to the left, which promised most 
entertairunent. 

Immediately upon his entering the gate of Vice, 
the trees and flowers were disposed in such a man- 
ner as to make the most pleasing impression ; but 
as he walked farther on, he insensibly found the 
garden assume the air of a wilderness, the land- 
scapes began to darken, the paths grew more intri- 
cate, he appeared to go dovrawards, frightful rocks 
seemed to hang over his head, gloomy caverns, un- 
expected precipices, awful ruins, heaps of unburied 
bones, and terrifying sounds, caused by unseen wa- 
ters, began to take place of what at first appeared 
so lovely; it was in vain to attempt returning, the 
labyrinth was too much perplexed for any but my- 
self to find the way back. In short, when suffi- 
ciently impressed with the horrors of what he saw, 



and the imprudence of his choice, I brought him by 
a hidden door a shorter way back into the area 
from whence at first he had strayed. 

The gloomy gate now presented itself before the 
stranger; and though there seemed little in its ap- 
pearance to tempt his curiosity, yet, encouraged by 
the motto, he generally proceeded. The darkness 
of the entrance, the frightful figures that seemed to 
obstruct his way, the trees, of a mournful green, 
conspired at first to disgust him ; as he went for- 
ward, however, all began to open and wear a more 
pleasing appearance ; beautiful cascades, beds of 
flowers, trees loaded with fruit or blossoms, and un- 
expected brooks improved the scene : he now found 
that he was ascending, and, as he proceeded, all 
nature grew more beautiful, the prospect widened 
as he went higher, even the air itself seemed to be- 
come more pure. Thus pleased and happy from 
unexpected beauties, I at last led him to an arbour, 
from whence he could view the garden, and the 
whole country around, and where he might own, 
that the road to Virtue terminated in Happiness. 

Though from this description you may imagine, 
that a vast tract of ground was necessary to exhibit 
such a pleasing variety in, yet be assured, I have 
seen several gardens in England take up ten times 
the space which mine did, without half the beauty. 
A very small extent of ground is enough for an 
elegant taste ; the greater room is required if mag- 
nificence is in view. There is no spot, though 
ever so little, which a skilful designer might not 
thus improve, so as to convey a delicate allegory, 
and impress the mind with truths the most useful 
and necessary. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXII. 



From the Same. 



In a late excursion with my friend into the coun- 
try, a gentleman with a blue riband tied round his 
shoulder, and in a chariot drawn by six horses, 
passed swiftly by us, attended with a numerous 
train of captains, lacqueys, and coaches filled with 
women. When we were recovered from the dust 
raised by this cavalcade, and could continue our 
discourse without danger of suffocation, I observed 
to my companion, that all this state and equipage, 
which he seemed to despise, would in China be re- 
garded with the utmost reverence, because such dis- 
tinctions were always the reward of merit; the 
greatness of a mandarine's retinue being a most 
certain mark of the superiority of his abilities or 
virtue. 

The gentleman who has now passed us, rephed 
my companion, has no claims from his own merit 
to distinction ; he is possessed neither of abilities 
nor virtue ; it is enough for him that one of his an- 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



cestors was possessed of these qualities two hun- 
dred years before him. There was a time, indeed, 
when his family deserved their title, but they are 
long since degenerated ; and his ancestors, for more 
than a century, have been more and more solicitous 
to keep up the breed of their dogs and horses than 
that of their children. This very nobleman, sim- 
ple as he seems, is descended from a race of states- 
men and heroes ; but, unluckily, his great-grand- 
father marrying a cook-maid, and she having a 
trifling passion for his lordship's groom, they some- 
how crossed the strain, and produced an heir, who 
took after his mother in his great love to good eat- 
ing, and his father in a violent affection for horse- 
Jiesh. These passions have for some generations 
passed on from father to son, and are now become 
the characteristics of the family ; his present lord- 
ship being equally remarkable for his kitchen and 
his stable. 

But such a nobleman, cried I, deserves our pity, 
thus placed in so high a sphere of hfe, which only 
the more exposes to contempt. A king may con- 
fer titles, but it is personal merit alone that ensures 
respect. I suppose, added I, that such men are 
despised by their equals, neglected by their infe- 
riors, and condemned to live among involuntary 
dependants in irksome solitude. 

You are still under a mistake, replied my com- 
panion ; for though this nobleman is a stranger to 
generosity ; though he takes twenty opportunities 
in a day of letting his guests know how much he 
despises them ; though he is possessed neither of 
taste, wit, nor wisdom; though incapable of im- 
proving others by his conversation, and never 
known to enrich any by his bounty; yet, for all 
this, his company is eagerly sought after : he is a 
lord, and that is as much as most people desire in 
a companion, duality and title have such allure- 
ments, that hundreds are ready to give up all their 
own importance, to cringe, to flatter, to look httle, 
and to pall every pleasure in constraint, merely to 
be among the great, though without the least hopes 
of improving their understanding, or sharing their 
generosity: they might be happy among their 
equals, but those are despised for company where 
they are despised in turn. You saw what a crowd 
of humble cousins, card-ruined beaux, and captains 
on half-pay, were wilUng to make up this great 
man's retinue down to his country-seat. Not one 
of all these that could not lead a more comfortable 
life at home, in their little lodging of three shilhngs 
a-week, with their lukewarm dinner, served up be- 
tween two pewter plates from a cook's shop. Yet, 
poor devils ! they are willing to undergo the imper- 
tinence and pride of their entertainer, merely to be 
thought to live among the great : they are willing 
to pass the summer in bondage, though conscious 
they are taken down only to approve his lordship's 



taste upon every occasion, to tag all his stupid ob- 
servations with a very true, to praise his stable, and 
descant upon his claret and cookery. 

The pitiful humiliations of the gentlemen you 
are now describing, said I, puts me in mind of a 
custom among the Tartars of Koreki, not entirely 
dissimilar to this we are now considering.* The 
Russians, who trade with them, carry thither a kind 
of mushrooms, which they exchange for furs of 
squirrels, ermines, sables, and foxes. These mush- 
rooms the rich Tartars lay up in large quantities 
for the winter; and when a nobleman makes a 
mushroom-feast, all the neighbours around are in- 
vited. The mushrooms are prepared by boiUng, 
by which the water acquires an intoxicating quali- 
ty, and is a sort of drink which the Tartars prize 
beyond all other. When the nobility and ladies 
are assembled, and the ceremonies usual between 
people of distinction over, the mushroom-broth goes 
freely round; they laugh, talk double entendre, 
grow fuddled, and become excellent company. The 
poorer sort, who love mushroom-broth to distraction 
as well as the rich, but can not afford it at the first 
hand, post themselves on these occasions round the 
huts of the rich, and watch the opportunities of the 
ladies and gentlemen as they come down to pass 
their liquor ; and holding a wooden bowl, catch the 
delicious fluid, very little altered by filtration, being 
still strongly tinctured with the intoxicatuig quali- 
ty. Of this they drink with the utmost satisfac- 
tion, and thus they get as drunk and as jovial as 
their betters. 

Happy nobility ! cries my companion, who can 
fear no diminution of respect, unless by being seized 
with strangury, and who when most drunk are 
most useful. Though we have not this custom 
among us, I foresee, that if it were introduced, we 
might have many a toad-eater in England ready to 
drink from the wooden bowl on these occasions, 
and to praise the flavour of his lordship's liquor. 
As we have different classes of gentry, who knows 
but we may see a lord holding the bowl to a min- 
ister, a knight holding it to his lordship, and a 
simple 'squire drinking it double distilled from 
loins of knighthood? For my part, I shall never 
for the future hear a great man's flatterers harangu- 
ing in his praise, that I shall not fancy I behold 
the wooden bowl ; for I can see no reason why a 
man, who can live easily and happily at home, 
should bear the drudgery of decorum, and the im- 
pertinence of his entertainer, unless intoxicated 
with a passion for all that was quality; unless 
he thought that whatever came from the great was 
deUcious, and had the tincture of the mushroom in 
it. Adieu. 



• Van Stralenberg, a writer of credit, gives the same ac- 
count of this people. See an Historico-Geographical Descrip. 
tion of the north-eastern parts of Europe and Asia, p. 397, 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



287 



LETTER XXXIII. 



From the Same. 



I AM disgusted, O Fuin Hoam, even to sickness 
disgusted. Is it possible to bear the presumption 
of those islanders, when they pretend to instruct 
me in the ceremonies of China ! They lay it down 
as a maxim, that every person who comes from 
thence must express himself in metaphor; swear 
by Alia, rail against wine, and behave, and talk, 
and write, like a Turk or Persian. They make 
no distinction between our elegant manners, and 
the voluptuous barbarities of our Eastern neigh- 
bours. Wherever I come, I raise either diffidence 
or astonishment : some fancy me no Chinese, be- 
cause I am formed more like a man than a monster ; 
and others wonder to find one born five thousand 
miles from England, endued with common sense. 
Strange, say they, that a man who has received 
his education at such a distance from London, 
should have common sense : to be born out of Eng- 
land, and yet have common sense ! Impossible ! 
He must be some Englishman in disguise; his 
very visage has nothing of the true exotic barbari- 
ty. 

I yesterday received an invitation from a lady of 
distinction, who it seems had collected all her know- 
ledge of Eastern manners from fictions every day 
propagated here, under the titles of Eastern tales 
and Oriental histories : she received me very polite- 
ly, but seemed to wonder that I neglected bringing 
opium and a tobacco-box ; when chairs were drawn 
for the rest of the company, I was assigned my 
place on a cushion on the floor. It was in vain 
that I protested the Chinese used chairs as in Eu- 
rope ; she understood decorums too well to entertain 
me with the orduiary civilities. 

I had scarcely been seated according to her di- 
rections, when the footman was ordered to pin a 
napkin under my chin : this I protested against, as 
being no way Chinese ; however, the whole com- 
pany, who it seems were a club of connoisseurs, 
gave it unanimously against me, and the napkin 
was pinned accordingly. 

It was impossible to be angry with people, who 
seemed to err only from an excess of politeness, 
and I sat contented, expecting their importunities 
were now at an end ; but as soon as ever dinner 
was served, the lady demanded, whether I was for 
a plate of Bears' claws, or a slice of Birds' nests? 
As these were dishes with which I was utterly un- 
acquainted, I was desirous of eating only what I 
knew, and therefore begged to be helped from a 
piece of beef that lay on the side-table : my request 
at once disconcerted the whole company. A Chi- 
nese eat beef! that could never be! there was no 
local propriety in Chinese beef, whatever there 
might be in Chinese pheasant. Sir, said my ea- 



tertainer, I think I have some reasons to fancy my- 
self a judge of these matters ; in short, the Chinese 
never eat beef; so that I must be permitted to re- 
commend the Pilaw. There was never better 
dressed at Pekin ; the saffron and rice are well 
boiled, and the spices in perfection. 

I had no sooner begun to eat what was laid be- 
fore me than I found the whole company as much 
astonished as before ; it seems I made no use of my 
chop-sticks. A grave gentleman, whom I take to 
be an author, harangued very learnedly (as the 
company seemed to think) upon the use which was 
made of them in China. He entered into a long 
argument with himself about their first introduction, 
without once appeahng to me, who might be sup- 
posed best capable of silencing the inquiry. As 
the gentleman therefore took my silence for a mark 
of his own superior sagacity, he was resolved to 
pursue the triumph: he talked of our cities, moun- 
tains, and animals, as familiarly as if he had been 
bom in Gluamsi, but as erroneously as if a native 
of the moon. He attempted to prove that I had 
nothing of the true Chinese cut in my visage ; 
showed that my cheek-bones should have been 
higher, and my forehead broader. In short, he 
almost reasoned me out of my country, and effect- 
ually persuaded the rest of the company to be of 
his opinion. 

I was going to expose his mistakes, when it was 
insisted that I had nothing of the true Eastern 
manner in my delivery. This gentleman's con- 
versation (says one of the ladies, who was a great 
reader) is like our own, mere chit-chat and com- 
mon sense : there is nothing like sense in the true 
Eastern style, where nothing more is required but 
sublimity. Oh ! for a history of Aboulfaouris, the 
grand voyager, of genii, magicians, rocks, bags of 
bullets, giants, and enchanters, where all is great, 
obscure, magnificent, and unintelligible ! — I have 
written many a sheet of Eastern tale myself, in- 
terrupts the author, and I defy the severest critic 
to say but that I have stuck close to the true man- 
ner. I have compared a lady's chin to the snow 
upon the mountains of Bomek ; a soldiers sword, 
to the clouds that obscure the face of heaven. If 
riches are mentioned, I compared them to the flocks 
that graze the verdant Tefflis ; if poverty, to the 
mists that veil the brow of mount Baku. I have 
used thee and thou upon all occasions ; I have de- 
scribed fallen stars and spUtting mountains, not 
forgetting the little Houries, who make a pretty 
figure in every description. But you shall hear 
how I generally begin: " Eben-ben-bolo, who was 
the son of Ban, was bom on the foggy summits of 
Benderabassi. His beard was whiter than the 
feathers which veil the breast of the penguin ; his 
eyes were like the eyes of doves when washed by 
the dews of the morning ; his hair, which hung like 
the willow weeping over the glassy stream, was so 



■288 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



beautiful that it seemed to reflect its own bright- 
ness ; and his feet were as the feet of a wild deer 
which fleeth to the tops of the mountains." There, 
there is the true Eastern taste for you ; every ad- 
vance made towards sense is only a deviation from 
sound. Eastern tales should always be sonorous, 
loft}', musical, and unmeaning. 

I could not avoid smiling to hear a native of 
England attempt to instruct me in the true Eastern 
idiom ; and after he looked round some time for 
applause, I presumed to ask him, whether he had 
ever travelled into the East ; to which he replied in 
the negative. I demanded whether he understood 
Chinese or Arabic ; to which also he answered as 
before. Then how, sir, said I, can you pretend to 
determine upon the Eastern style, who are en- 
tirely unacquainted with the Eastern writings? 
Take, sir, the word of one who is -professedly a 
Chinese, and who is actually acquainted with the 
Arabian writers, that what is palmed upon you 
daily for an imitation of Eastern writing no way 
resembles their manner, either in sentiment or dic- 
tion. In the East, similes are seldom used, and 
metaphors almost wholly unknown ; but in China 
particularly, the very reverse of what you allude to 
takes place ; a cool phlegmatic method of writing 
prevails there. The writers of that country, ever 
more assidious to instruct than to please, address 
rather the judgment than the fancy. Unlike many 
authors of Europe, who have no consideration of 
the reader's time, they generally leave more to be 
understood than they express. 

Besides, sir, you must not expect from an in- 
habitant of China the same ignorance, the same 
unlettered simplicity, that you find in a Turk, 
Persian, or native of Peru. The Chinese are 
versed in the sciences as well as you, and are mas- 
ters of several arts unknown to the people of Eu- 
rope. Many of them are instructed not only in 
their own national learning, but are perfectly well 
acquainted with the languages and learning of the 
"West. If my word in such a case is not to be 
taken, consult your own travellers on this head, 
who affirm, that the scholars of Pekin and Siam 
sustain theological theses in Latin. The college 
of Masprend, which is but a league from Siam 
(says one of your travellers,*) came in a body to 
salute our ambassador. Nothing gave me more 
sincere pleasure than to behold a number of priests, 
venerable both from age and modesty, followed by 
a number of youths of all nations, Chinese, Ja- 
panese, Tonquinese, of Cochin China, Pegu, and 
Siam, all willing to pay their respects in the most 
polite manner imaginable. A Cochin Chinese 
made an excellent Latin oration upon this occa- 



' Jom-nal ou Suite riu Voyage de Siam, en fonne de Let- 
tres familieres, fait en 1685 et 1686, par N. L. D. C, p. 174. 
Edit. Amstelod 1686. 



sion ; he was succeeded, and even outdone, by a 
student of Tonquin, who was as well skilled in the 
Western learning as any scholar of Paris. Now, 
sir, if youths, who never stirred from home, are so 
perfectly skilled in your laws and learning, surely 
more must be expected from one like me, who have 
travelled so many thousand miles ; who have con- 
versed familiarly for several years with the EngUsh 
factors estabUshed at Canton, and the missionaries 
sent us from every part of Europe. The unaffect- 
ed of every country nearly resemble each other, 
and a page of our Confucius and of your Tillotson 
have scarcely any material difference. Paltry af- 
fectation, strained allusions, and disgusting finery, 
are easily attained by those who choose to wear 
them : and they are but too frequently the badges 
of ignorance, or of stupidity, whenever it would 
endeavour to please. 

I was proceeding in my discourse, when looking 
round, I perceived the company in no way atten- 
tive to what I attempted, with so much earnest- 
ness, to enforce. One lady was whispering her 
that sat next, another was studying the merits of 
a fan, a third began to yawn, and the author him- 
self fell fast asleep. I thought it, therefore, high time 
to make a retreat; nor did the company seem to 
show any regret at my preparations for departure : 
even the lady who had invited me, with the most 
mortifying insensibility, saw me seize my hat, and 
rise from my cushion ; nor was 1 invited to repeat 
my visit, because it was found that I aimed at ap- 
pearing rather a reasonable creature than an out- 
landish ideot. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXIV. 



To the Same. 



The pohte arts are in this country subject to as 
many revolutions as its laws or politics: not only 
the objects of fancy and dress, but even of delicacy 
and taste, are directed by the capricious influence 
of fashion. I am told there has been a time when 
poetry was universally encouraged by the great; 
when men of the first rank not only patronized the 
poet, but produced the finest models for his imita- 
tion. It was then the English sent forth those 
glowing rhapsodies, which we have so often read 
over together with rapture; poems big with all the 
sublimity of Mentius, and supported by reasoning 
as strong as that of Zimpo. 

The nobility are fond of wisdom, but they are 
also fond of having it without study ; to read poetry 
required thought; and the English nobility were 
not fond of thinking: they soon therefore placed 
their affections upon music, because in this they 
might indulge a happy vacancy, and yet still have 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD, 



289 



pretensions to delicacy and taste as before. They 
soon brought their numerous dependants into an 
approbation of their pleasures; who in turn led 
their thousand imitators to feel or feign a similitude 
of passion. Colonies of singers were now im- 
ported from abroad at a vast expense ; and it was 
expected the English would soon be able to set 
examples to Europe. All these expectations, how- 
ever, were soon dissipated. In spite of the zeal 
which fired the great, the ignorant vulgar refused 
to be taught to sing; refused to undergo the cere- 
monies which were to initiate them in the singing 
fraternity : thus the colony from abroad dwindled 
by degrees; for they were of themselves unfortu- 
nately incapable of propagating the breed. 

Music having thus lost its splendour, painting 
is now become the sole object of fashionable care. 
The title of connoisseur in that art is at present 
the safest passport in every fashionable society ; a 
well-timed shrug, an admiring attitude, and one 
or two exotic tones of exclamation, are sufficient 
qualifications for men of low circumstances to curry 
favour. Even some of the young nobility are 
themselves early instructed in handling the pencil, 
while their happy parents, big with expectation, 
foresee the walls of every apartment covered with 
the manufactures of their posterity. 

But many of the English are not content with 
giving all their time to this art at home; some 
young men of distinction are found to travel 
through Europe, with no other intent than that of 
understanding and collecting pictures, studying 
seals, and describing statues. On they travel from 
this cabinet of curiosities to that gallery of pictures ; 
waste the prime of life in wonder; skilful in pic- 
tures, ignorant in men; yet impossible to be re- 
claimed, because their follies take shelter under the 
names of delicacy and taste. 

It is true, painting should have due encourage- 
ment; as the painter can undoubtedly fit up our 
apartments in a much more elegant manner than 
the upholsterer ; but I should think a man of fash- 
ion makes but an indifferent exchange who lays 
out all that time in furnishing his house which he 
should have employed in the furniture of his head. 
A person wlio shows no other symptoms of taste 
than his cabinet or gallery, might as well boast to 
me of the furniture of his Idtchen. 

I know no other motive but vanity that induces 
the great to testify such an inordinate passion for 
pictures. After the piece is bought, and gazed at 
eight or ten days successively, the purchaser's plea- 
sure must surely be over; all the satisfaction he 
can then have is to show it to others; he may be 
considered as the guardian of a treasure of which 
, le makes no manner of use; his gallery is furnish- 
ed not for himself but the connoisseur, who is ge- 
nerally some humble flatterer, ready to feign a rap- 
ture he does i^ot feel, and as necessary to the hap- 



piness of a picture-buyer as gazers are to the mag- 
nificence of an Asiatic procession. 

1 have enclosed a letter from a youth of distinc- 
tion, on his travels, to his father in England; 
in which he appears addicted to no vice, seems 
obedient to liis governor, of a good natural dis- 
position, and fond of improvement, but at the 
same time early taught to regard cabinets and gal- 
leries as the only proper schools of improvement, 
and to consider a skill in pictures as the properest 
knowledge for a man of quality. 

" My Lord, 

"We have been but two days an Antwerp; 
wherefore I have sat down as soon as possible, to 
give you some account of what we have seen since 
our arrival, desirous of letting no opportunity pass 
without writing to so good a father. Immediately 
upon ahghting from our Rotterdam machine, my 
governor, who is immoderately fond of paintings, 
and at the same time an excellent judge, would let 
no time pass till we paid our respects to the church 
of the virgin -mother, which contains treasure be- 
yond estimation. We took an infinity of pains in 
knowing its exact dimensions, and differed half a 
foot in our calculation ; so I leave that to some 
succeeding information. I really believe my go- 
vernor and I could have lived and died there. 
There is scarce a pillar in the whole church that 
is not adorned by a Reubens, a Vander Meuylen, 
a Vandyke, or a Wouverman. What attitudes, 
carnations, and draperies ! I am almost induced 
to pity the English, who have none of those exqui- 
site pieces among them. As we were willing to 
let slip no opportunity of doing business, we im- 
mediately after went to wait on Mr. Hogendorp, 
xvhom you have so frequently commended for his 
judicious collection. His cameos are indeed be- 
yond price: his intaglios not so good. He showed 
us one of an ofliciating flamen, which he thought 
to be an antique ; but my governor, who is not to 
be deceived in these particulars, soon found it to be 
an arrant cinque cento. I could not, however, 
sufficiently admire the genius of Mr. Hogendorp, 
who has been able to collect, from all parts of the 
world, a thousand things which nobody knows the 
use of. Except your lordship and my governor, 
I do not know any body I admire so much. He 
is indeed a surprising genius. The next morning 
early, as we were resolved to take the whole day 
before us, we sent our comphments to Mr. Van 
Sprokken, desiring to see his gallery, which request 
he very politely complied with. His gallery mea- 
sures fifty feet by twenty, and is well filled ; but 
what surprised me most of all, was to see a holy 
family just like your lordship's, which this inge- 
nious gentleman assures me is the true original, 
I own this gave me inexpressible uneasiness, and 
I fear it will to your lordship, as I had flattered 



290 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



myself that the only original was in your lodship's 
possession ; I would advise you, however, to take 
your's down, till its merit can be ascertained, my 
governor assuring me, that he intends to write a 
long dissertation to prove its originality. One 
might study in this city for ages, and still find 
something new : we went from this to view the 
cardinal's statues, which are really very fine ; there 
were three spintria executed in a very masterly 
manner, all arm in arm ; the torse which I heard 
you talk so much of, is at last discovered to be a 
Hercules spinning, and not a Cleopatra bathing, 
as your lordship had conjectured ; there has been 
a treatise written to prove it. 

" My Lord Firmly is certainly a Goth, a Van- 
dal, no taste in the world for painting. 1 wonder 
how any call him a man of taste : passing through 
the streets of Antwerp a few days ago, and ob- 
serving the nakedness of the inhabitants, he was 
so barbarous as to observe, that he thought the 
best method the Flemings could take, was to sell 
their pictures, and buy clothes. Ah, Cogline ! 
We shall go to-morrow to Mr. Carwarden's cabi- 
net, and the next day we shall see the curiosities 
collected by Van Rau, and the day after we shall 

pay a visit to Mount Calvary, and after that 

but I find my paper finished ; so, with the most 
sincere wishes for your lordship's happiness, and 
with hopes, after having seen Italy, that centre of 
pleasure, to return home worthy the care and ex- 
pense which has been generously laid out in ray 
improvement, I remain, my Lord, yours," etc. 



LETTER XXXV. 

From Hingpo, a Slave in Persia, to Altangi, a travelling Phi- 
losoplier of Cliina, by the way of Moscow. 

Fortune has made me the slave of another, but 
nature and inclination render me entirely subser- 
vient to you : a tyrant commands my body, but you 
are master of my heart. And yet let not thy inflexi- 
ble nature condemn me when I confess, that I find 
my soul shrink with my circumstances. I feel my 
mind not less than my body bend beneath the ri- 
gours of servitude; the master whom I serve 
grows every day more formidable. In spite of 
reason, wluch should teach me to despise him, his 
hideous image fills even my dreams with horror. 

A few days ago, a Christian slave, who wrought 
in the gardens, happening to enter an arbour, 
where the tyrant was entertaining the ladies of his 
haram with coffee, the unhappy captive was in- 
stantly stabbed to the heart for his intrusion. I 
have been preferred to his place, which, though 
less laborious than my former station, is yet more 
ungrateful, as it brings me nearer him whose pre- 
sence excites sensations at once of disgust and ap- 
prehension. 



Into what a state of misery are the modem Per- 
sians fallen ! A nation famous for setting the 
world an example of freedom is now become a land 
of tyrants, and a den of slaves. The houseleas 
Tartar of Kamtschatka, who enjoys his herbs and 
his fish in unmolested freedom, may be envied, if 
compared to the thousands who pine here in hope- 
less servitude, and curse the day that gave them 
being. Is this just dealing, Heaven! to render 
millions wretched to swell up the happiness of a 
few ? can not the powerful of this earth be happy 
without our sighs and tears? must every luxury of 
the great be woven from the calamities of the poor 1 
It must, it must surely be, that this jarring dis- 
cordant life is but the prelude to some future har- 
mony : the soul attuned to virtue here shall go 
from hence to fill up the universal choir where 
Tien presides in person, where there shall be no 
tyrants to frown, no shackles to bind, nor no whips 
to threaten; where I shall once more meet my 
father with rapture, and give a loose to filial piety; 
where I shall hang on his neck, and hear the wis- 
dom of his lips, and thank him for all the happi- 
ness to which he has introduced me. 

The wretch whom fortune has made my master 
has lately purchased several slaves of both sexes ; 
among the rest I hear a Christian captive talked 
of with admiration. The eunuch who bought 
her, and who is accustomed to survey beauty with 
indifference, speaks of her with emotion! Her 
pride, however, astonishes her attendant slaves not 
less than her beauty. It is reported that she re- 
fuses the warmest solicitations of her haughty lord: 
he has even offered to make her one of his four 
wives upon changing her reUgion, and conforming 
to his. It is probable she can not refuse such ex- 
traordinary offers, and her delay is perhaps intend- 
ed to enhance her favours. 

I have just now seen her ; she inadvertently ap- 
proached the place without a veil, where I sat 
writing. She seemed to regard the heavens alone 
with fixed attention ; there her most ardent gaze 
was directed. Genius of the sun! what unex- 
pected softness ! what animated grace ! her beauty 
seemed the transparent covering of virtue. Ce- 
lestial beings could not wear a look of more per- 
fection, while sorrow humanized her form, and 
mixed my admiration with pity. I rose from the 
bank on which I sat, and she retired ; happy that 
none observed us; for such an interview might 
have been fatal. 

I have regarded, till now, the opulence and the 
power of my tyrant without envy. I saw him 
with a mind incapable of enjoying the gifts of for 
tune, and consequently regarded him as one loaded 
rather than enriched with its favours ; but at pre- 
sent, when I think that so much beauty is reserv- 
ed only for him ; that so many charms should be 
lavished on a wretch incapable of feeling the great- 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



291 



ness of the blessing, I own I feel a reluctance to 
which I have hitherto been a stranger. 

But let not my father impute those uneasy sen- 
sations to so trifling a cause as love. No, never 
let it be thought that your son, and the pupil of the 
wise Fum Hoam, could stoop to so degrading a 
passion ; I am only displeased at seeing so much 
excellence so unjustly disposed of. 

The uneasiness which I feel is not for myself, 
but for the beautiful Christian. When I reflect 
on the barbarity of him for whom she is designed, 
I pity, indeed I pity her ; when I think that she 
must only share one heart, who deserves to com- 
mand a thousand, excuse me if 1 feel an emotion 
which universal benevolence extorts from me. As 
I am convinced that you take a pleasure in those 
salUes of humanity, and particularly pleased with 
compassion, 1 could not avoid discovering the sen- 
sibility with which I felt this beautiful stranger's 
distress. I have for a while forgot, in her's, the 
miseries of my own hopeless situation; the tyrant 
grows every day more severe ; and love, which soft- 
ens all other minds into tenderness, seems only to 
have increased his severity. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

From the Same. 

The whole haram is filled with a tumultuous 
joy ; Zelis, the beautiful captive, has consented to 
embrace the religion of Mahomet, and become one 
of the wives of the fastidious Persian. It is im- 
possible to describe the transport that sits on every 
face on this occasion. Music and feasting fill 
every apartment, the most miserable slave seems 
to forget his chains, and sympathizes with the 
happiness of Mostadad. The herb we tread be- 
neath our feet is not made more for our use than 
every slave around him for their imperious master ; 
mere machines of obedience, they wait with silent 
assiduity, feel his pains, and rejoice in his exulta- 
tion. Heavens, how much is requisite to make 
one man happy ! 

Twelve of the most beautiful slaves, and I among 
the number, have got orders to prepare for carry- 
ing him in triumph to the bridal apartment. The 
blaze of perfumed torches are to imitate the day ; 
the dancers and singers are hired at a vast expense. 
The nuptials are to be celebrated on the ap- 
proaching feast of Barboura, when a hundred taels 
of gold are to be distributed among the barren 
wives, in order to pray for fertiUty from the ap- 
proaching union. 

What will not riches procure ! A hundred do- 
mestics, who curse the tyrant in their souls, are 
commanded to wear a face of joy, and they are 
joyful. A hundred flatterers are ordered to attend, 



and they fill his ears with praise. Beauty, all-com- 
manding beauty, sues for admittance, and scarcely 
receives an answer : even love itself seems to wait 
upon fortune, or though the passion be only feigned, 
yet it wears every appearance of sincerity : and 
what greater pleasure can even true sincerity con- 
fer, or what would the rich have more ? 

Nothing can exceed the intended magnificence 
of the bridegroom, but the costly dresses of the bride : 
six eunuchs, in the most sumptuous habits, are to 
conduct him to the nuptial couch, and wait his 
orders. Six ladies, in all the magnificence of Per- 
sia, are directed to uiidress the bride. Their busi- 
ness is to assist, to encourage her, to divest her of 
every encumbering part of her dress, all but the 
last covering, which, by an artful complication of 
ribands, is purposely made difficult to unloose, and 
with which she is to part reluctantly even to the 
joyful possessor of her beauty. 

Mostadad, O my father! is no philosopher j and 
yet he seems perfectly contented with ignorance. 
Possessed of numberless slaves, camels and women, 
he desires no greater possession. He never open- 
ed the page of Mentius, and yet all the slaves tell 
me that he is happy. 

Forgive the weakness of my nature, if I some- 
times feel my heart rebellious to the dictates of wis- 
dom, and eager for happiness like his. Yet why 
wish for his wealth with his ignorance? to be like 
him, incapable of sentimental pleasures, incapable 
of feeling the happiness of making others happy, 
incapable of teaching the beautiful Zelis philosophy? 
What! shall I in a transport of passion give up 
the golden mean, the universal harmony, the un- 
changing essence, for the possession of a hundred 
camels, as many slaves, thirty -five beautiful horses, 
and seventy-three fine womeni First blast me to 
the centre! degrade me beneath the most degraded! 
pare my nails, ye powers of Heaven! ere I would 
stoop to such an exchange. What! part with phi- 
losophy, which teaches me to suppress my passions 
instead of gratifying them, which teaches me even 
to divest my soul of passion, which teaches serenity 
in the midst of tortures! philosophy, by which even 
now 1 am so very serene, and so very much at ease, 
to be persuaded to part with it for any other en- 
joyment! Never, never, even though persuasion 
spoke in the accents of Zelis! 

A female slave informs me that the bride is to be 
arrayed in a tissue of silver, and her hair adorned 
with the largest pearls of Ormus : but why tease 
you with particulars, in which we both are so little 
concerned. The pain I feel in separation throws 
a gloom over my mind, which in this scene of luii- 
versal joy, I fear may be attributed to some other 
cause : how wretched are those who are, like me, 
denied even the last resource of misery; their tearsl 
Adieu. 



292 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



LETTER XXXVII. 



From the Same. 



I BEGIN to have doubts whether wisdom be alone 
sufficient to make us happy : whether every step 
we make in refinement is not an inlet into new 
disquietudes. A mind too vigorous and active 
serves only to consume the body to which it is 
joined, as the richest jewels are soonest found to 
wear their settings. 

When we rise in knowledge, as the prospect 
widens, the objects of our regard become more 
obscure ; and the unlettered peasant, whose views 
are only directed to the narrow sphere around him, 
beholds Nature with a finer relish, and tastes her 
blessings with a keener appetite than the philoso- 
pher whose mind attempts to grasp a universal 
system. 

As I was some days ago pursuing this subject 
among a circle of my fellow-slaves, an ancient 
Guebre of the number, equally remarkable for his 
piety and wisdom, seemed touched with my con- 
versation, and desired to illustrate what I had been 
saying with an allegory taken from the Zendavesta 
of Zoroaster: by this we shall be taught, says he, 
that they who travel in pursuit of wisdom walk 
only in a circle ; and after all their labour, at last 
return to their pristine ignorance ; and in this also 
we shall see, that enthusiastic confidence or unsat- 
isfying doubts terminate all our inquiries. 

In early times, before myriads of nations covered 
the earth, the whole human race lived together in 
one valley. The simple inhabitants, surrounded 
on every side by lofty mountains, knew no other 
world but the little spot to which they were confin- 
ed. They fancied the heavens bent down to meet 
the mountain tops, and formed an impenetrable 
wall to surround them. None had ever yet veii- 
tured to climb the steepy cliff, in order to explore 
those regions that lay beyond it ; they knew the 
nature of the skies only from a tradition, which 
mentioned their being made of adamant : traditions 
make up the reasonings of the simple, and serve to 
silence every inquiry. 

In this sequestered vale, blessed with all the 
spontaneous productions of Nature, the honeyed 
blossom, the refreshing breeze, the gliding brook, 
and golden fruitage, the simple inhabitants seemed 
happy in themselves, in each other ; they desired 
no greater pleasures, for they knew of none great- 1 
er ; ambition, pride, and envy, were vices unknown I 
among them; and from this peculiar simplicity! 
of its possessors, the country was called the Valley \ 
of Ignorance. I 

At length, however, an unhappy youth, more 
aspiring than the rest, undertook to climb the! 
mountain's side, and examine the summits which : 
were hitherto deemed inaccessible. The inhabit- 



ants from below gazed with wonder at his intre- 
pidity ; some applauded his courage, others censur 
ed his folly ; still, however, he proceeded towards 
the place where the earth and heavens seemed to 
unite, and at length arrived at the wished-for height 
with extreme labour and assiduity. 

His first surprise v.'as to find the skies, not as he 
expected within his reach, but still as far off as be- 
fore ; his amazement increased when he saw a wide 
extended region lying on the opposite side of the 
mountain, but it rose to astonishment when he 
beheld a country at a distance more beautiful and 
alluring than even that he had just left behind. 

As he continued to gaze with wonder, a genius, 
with a look of infinite modesty, approaching, offer- 
ed to be his guide and instructor. The distant 
country which you so much admire, says the an- 
gelic being, is called the Land of Certainty: in that 
charming retreat, sentiment contributes to refine 
every sensual banquet; the inhabitants are blessed 
with every solid enjoyment, and still more blessed 
in a perfect consciousness of their own felicity : ig- 
norance in that country is wholly unknown ; all 
there is satisfaction without allay, for every pleasure 
first undergoes the examination of reason. As for 
me, lam called the Genius of Demonstration, and 
am stationed here in order to conduct every adven- 
turer to that land of happiness, through those inter- 
vening regions you see overhung with fogs and 
darkness, and horrid with forests, cataracts, cav- 
erns, and various other shapes of danger. But fol- 
low me, and in time I may lead you to that distant 
desirable land of tranquillity. 

The intrepid traveller immediately put himself 
under the direction of the genius, and both jour- 
neying on together with a slow but agreeable pace, 
deceived the tediousness of the way by conversa- 
tion. The beginning of the journey seemed to 
promise true satisfaction, but as they proceeded 
forward, the skies became more gloomy and the 
way more intricate; they often inadvertently ap- 
proached the brow of some frightful precipice, or 
the brink of a torrent, and were obliged to measure 
back their former way: the gloom increasing as 
they proceeded, their pace became more slow ; they 
paused at every step, frequently stumbled, and their 
distrust and timidity increased. The Genius of 
Demonstration now therefore advised his pupil to 
grope upon hands and feet, as a method, though 
more slow, yet less liable to error. 

In this manner they attempted to pursue their 
journey for some time, when they were overtaken 
by another genius, who with a precipitate pace 
seemed travelling the same way. He was instant- 
ly known by the other to be the Genius of Proba- 
bility. He wore two wide extended wings at his 
back, which incessantly waved, without increasing 
the rapidity of his motion ; his countenance be- 
trayed a confidence that the ignorant might mis- 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



293 



take for sincerity, and he had but one eye, which 
was fixed in the middle of his forehead. 

Servant of Hormizda, cried he, approaching the 
mortal pilgrim, if thou art travelling to the Land 
of Certainty, how is it possible to arrive there un- 
der the guidance of a genius, who proceeds for- 
ward so slowly, and is so little acquainted with the 
wayl Follow me, we shall soon perform the 
journey to where every pleasure waits our arrival. 

The peremptory tone in which this genius spoke, 
and the speed with which he moved forward, in- 
duced the traveller to change his conductor, and 
leaving his modest companion behind, he proceed- 
ed forward with his more confident director, seem- 
ing not a little pleased at the increased velocity of 
his motion. 

But soon he found reasons to repent. When- 
ever a torrent crossed their way, his guide taught 
him to despise the obstacle by plunging him in ; 
whenever a precipice presented, he was directed to 
fling himself forward. Thus each moment miracu- 
lously escaping, his repeated escapes only served 
to increase his temerity. He led him therefore 
forward, amidst infinite difficulties, till they arrived 
at the borders of an ocean, which appeared innavi- 
gable from the black mists that lay upon its sur- 
fitce. Its unquiet waves were of the darkest hue, 
and gave a lively representation of the various agi- 
tations of the human mind. 

The Genius of Probability now confessed his 
temerity, owned his being an improper guide to the 
Land of Certainty, a country where no mortal 
had ever been permitted to arrive ; but at the same 
time offered to supply the traveller with another 
conductor, who should carry him to the Land of 
Confidence, a region where the inhabitants lived 
with the utmost tranquillity, and tasted almost as 
much satisfaction as if in the Land of Certainty. 
Not waiting for a reply, he stamped three times on 
the ground, and called forth the Demon of Error, 
a gloomy fiend of the servants of Arimanes. The 
yawning earth gave up tlie reluctant savage, who 
seemed unable to bear the light of the day. His 
stature was enormous, his colour black and hideous, 
his aspect betrayed a thousand varying passions, 
and he spread forth pinions that were fitted for the 
most rapid flight. The traveller at first was shock- 
ed at the spectre; but finding him obedient to su- 
perior power, he assumed his former tranquillity. 

I have called you to duty, cries the genius to the 
demon, to bear on your back a son of mortality 
over the Ocean of Doubts, into the Land of Con- 
fidence: I expect you'll perform your commission 
with punctuality. And as for you, continued the 
genius, addressing the traveller, when once I have 
bound this fillet round your eyes, let no voice of 
persuasion, nor threats the most terrifying, per- 
suade you to unbind it in order to look round ; keep 
the fillet fast, look not at the ocean below, and 



you may certainly expect to arrive at a region of 
pleasure. 

Thus saying, and the traveller's eyes being 
covered, the demon, muttering curses, raised him 
on his back, and instantly upborne by his strong 
pinions, directed his flight among the clouds. Nei- 
ther the loudest thunder, nor the most angry tem- 
pest, could persuade the traveller to unbind his 
eyes. The demon directed his flight downwards, 
and skimmed the surface of the ocean ; a thousand 
voices, some with loud invectives, others in the 
sarcastic tones of contempt, vainly endeavoured to 
persuade him to look round ; but he still continued 
to keep his eyes covered, and would in all proba- 
bility have arrived at the happy land, had not flat- 
tery effected what other means could not perform. 
For now he heard himself welcomed on every side 
to the promised land, and a universal shout of joy 
was sent forth at his safe arrival. The wearied 
traveller, desirous of seeing the long wished for 
country, at length pulled the fillet from his eyes, 
and ventured to look round him. But he had un- 
loosed the band too soon ; he was not yet above 
half-way over. The demon, who was still hover- 
ing in the air, and had produced those sounds only 
in order to deceive, was now freed from his com- 
mission ; wherefore throwing the astonished travel- 
ler from his back, the unhappy youth fell headlong 
into the subjacent Ocean of Doubts, from whence 
he never after was seen to rise. 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin in China. 

When Parmenio, the Grecian, had done some- 
thing which excited a universal shout from the 
surrounding multitude, he was instantly struck 
with the doubt, that what had their approbation 
must certainly be wrong ; and turning to a philoso- 
pher who stood near him, Pray, sir, says he, par- 
don me; I fear I have been guilty of some ab- 
surdity. 

You know that I am not less than him a despiser 
of the multitude ; you know that I equally detest 
flattery to the great ; yet so many circumstances 
have concurred to give a lustre to the latter part of 
the present English monarch's reign, that I can not 
withhold my contribution of praise ; I can not avoid 
the acknowledging the crowd, for once, just in their 
unanimous approbation. 

Yet think not that battles gained, dominion ex- 
tended, or enemies brought to submission, are the 
virtues which at present claim my admiration. 
Were the reigning monarch only famous for his 
victories, I should regard his character with indif- 
ference : the boast of heroism in this enlightened 
age is justly regarded as a qualification of a very 



694 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



subordinate rank, and mankind now begin to look 
with becoming horror on these foes to man. The 
virtue in this aged monarch which I have at pre- 
sent in view, is one of a much more exalted nature, 
is one of the most difficult of attainment, is the least 
praised of all kingly virtues, and yet deserves the 
greatest praise; the virtue I mean is Justice ; strict 
administration of justice, without severity and with- 
out favour. 

Of all virtues this is the most difficult to be prac- 
tised by a king who has a power to pardon. All 
men, even tyrants themselves, lean to mercy when 
unbiassed by passions orinterest ; the heart natural- 
ly persuades to forgiveness, and pursuing the dic- 
tates of this pleasing deceiver, we are led to prefer 
our private satisfaction to public utility. What a 
thorough love for the public, what a strong com- 
mand over the passions, what a finely conducted 
judgment must he possess, who opposes the dic- 
tates of reason to those of his heart, and prefers the 
future interest of his people to his own immediate 
satisfaction? 

If still to a man's own natural bias for tender- 
derness, we add the numerous solicitations made 
by a criminal's friends for mercy ; if we survey a 
king not only opposing his own feelings, but re 
luctantly refusing those he regards, and this to 
satisfy the public, whose cries he may never hear, 
whose gratitude he may never receive, this surely 
is true greatness ! Let us fancy ourselves for a 
moment in this just old man's place, surrounded 
by numbers, all soliciting the same favour, a favour 
that nature disposes us to grant, where the induce- 
ments to pity are laid before us in the strongest 
light, suppliants at our feet, some ready to resent 
a refusal, none opposing a compliance ; let us, I 
say, suppose ourselves in such a situation, and I 
fancy we should find ourselves more apt to act the 
character of good-natured men than of upright 
magistrates. 

What contributes to raise justice above all other 
kingly virtues is, that it is seldom attended with a 
due share of applause, and those who practise it 
must be influenced by greater motives than empty 
fame: the people are generally well pleased with a 
remission of punishment, and all that wears the 
appearance of humanity ; it is the wise alone who 
are capable of discerning that impartial justice is 
the truest mercy : they know it to be very difficult, 
at once to compassionate, and yet condemn an ob- 
ject ttiat pleads for tenderness. 

I have been led into this common-place train of 
thought by a late striking instance in this country 
of the impartiality of justice, and of the king's in- 
flexible resolution of inflicting punishment where 
it was justly due. A manoftlie first quality; in 
a fit either of passion, melancholy, or madness, 
murdered his servant: it was expected that his sta- 
tion in life would have lessened the ignominy of his 



punishment ; however, he was arraigned, condemn- 
ed, and underwent the same degrading death with 
the meanest malefactor. It was well considered 
that virtue alone is true nobility; and that he whose 
actions sink him even beneath the vulgar, has no 
right to those distinctions which should be the re- 
ward only of merit : it was perhaps considered that 
crimes were more heinous among the higher classes 
of people, as necessity exposes them to fewer temp- 
tations. 

Over all the East, even China not excepted, a 
person of the same quality, guilty of such a crime, 
might, by giving up a share of his fortune to the 
judge, buy ofl' his sentence. There are several 
countries, even in Europe, where the servant is 
entirely the property of his master : if a slave kills 
his lord, he dies by the most excruciating tortures; 
but if the circumstances are reversed, a small fine 
buys off the punishment of the offender. Happy 
the country where all are equal, and where those 
who sit as judges have too much integrity to receive 
a bribe, and too much honour to pity from a simili- 
tude of the prisoner's title or circumstances with 
their own. Such is England : yet think not that 
it was always equally famed for this strict imparti- 
ality. There was a time, even here, when title 
softened the rigours of the law, when dignified 
wretches were suffered to live, and continue for 
years an equal disgrace to justice and nobility. 

To this day, in a neighbouring country, the great 
are often most scandalously pardoned for the mOst 
scandalous offences. A person is still alive among 
them who has more than once deserved the most 
ignominious severity of justice. His being of the 
blood royal, however, was thought a sufficient atone- 
ment for his being a disgrace to humanity. This 
remarkable personage took pleasure in shooting at 
the passengers below from the top of his palace; 
and in this most princely amusement he usually 
spent some time every day. He was at length ar- 
raigned by the friends of a person whom in this 
manner he had killed, was found guilty of the 
charge, and condemned to die. His merciful mon- 
arch pardoned him, in consideratiim of his rank 
and quality. The unrepenting criminal soon after 
renewed his usual entertainment, and in the same 
manner killed another man. He was a second 
time condemned; and, strange to think, a second 
time received his majesty's pardon! Would you 
believe it 7 A third time the very same man was 
guilty of the very same offence; a third time, there- 
fore, the laws of his country found him guilty : — I 
wish, for the honour of humanity, I could suppress 
the rest — a third time he was pardoned ! Will you 
not think such a story too extraordinary for belief? 
will you not think me describing the savage inhabi- 
tants of Congo? Alas! the story is but too true; 
and the country where it was transacted regards 
itself as the politest in Europe ! Adieu. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



295 



LETTER XXXIX. 

titom Lien Chi Altangi to " * *, Merchant in Amsterdam. 

Ceremonies are different in every country; but 
true politeness is every where the same. Ceremo- 
nies, which take up so much of our attention, are 
only artificial helps which ignorance assumes, in 
order to imitate politeness, which is the result of 
good sense and good nature. A person possessed 
of those qualities, though he had never seen a court, 
is truly agreeable; and if without them would con- 
tinue a clown, though he had been all his life a 
gentleman usher. 

How would a Chinese, bred up in the formalities 
of an Eastern Court, be regarded, should he carry 
all his good manners beyond the Great Wall 7 
How would an Englishman, skilled in all the de- 
corums of Western good-breeding, appear at an 
Eastern entertainment — would he not be reckoned 
more fantastically savage than even his unbred 
footman? 

Ceremony resembles that base coin which circu- 
lates through a country by the royal mandate; it 
serves every purpose of real money at home, but is 
entirely useless if carried abroad : a person who 
should attempt to circulate his native trash in ano- 
ther country, would be thought either ridiculous or 
culpable. He is truly well-bred, who knows when 
to value and when to despise those national pecu- 
liarities, which are regarded by some with so much 
observance : a traveller of taste at once perceives 
that the wise are polite all the world over, but that 
fools are polite only at home. 

I have now before me two very fashionable let- 
ters upon the same subject, both written by ladies 
of distinction ; one of whom leads the fashion in 
England, and the other sets the ceremonies of 
China: they are both regarded in their respective 
countries, by all the beau monde, as standards of 
taste, and models of true politeness, and both give 
us a true idea of what they imagine elegant in their 
admirers: which of them understands true polite- 
ness, or whether either, you shall be at liberty to 
determine. The English lady writes thus to her 
female confidant: — 

As I live, my dear Charlotte, I believe the colo- 
nel will carry it at last; he is a most irresistible fel- 
low, that is flat. So well dressed, so neat, so 
sprightly, and plays about one so agreeably, that I 
vow, he has as much spirits as the Marquis of 
Monkeyman's Italian greyhound. I first saw him 
at Ranelagh; he shines there: he is nothing with- 
out Ranelagh, and Ranelagh nothing without him. 
The next day he sent a card and compliments, de- 
siring to wait on mamma and me to the music sub- 
scription. He looked all the time with such irre- 
sistible impudence, that positively he had something 



in his face gave me as much pleasure as a pair- 
royal of naturals in my own hand. He waited on 
mamma and me the next morning to know how 
we got home: you must know the insidious devil 
makes love to us both. Rap went the footman at 
the door; bounce went my heart: I thought he 
would have rattled the house down. Chariot drove 
up to the window, with his footmen in the prettiest 
liveries ; he has infinite taste, that is flat. Mamma 
had spent all the morning at her head ; but for my 
part I was in an undress to receive him; quite easy, 
mind that; no way disturbed at his approach: 
mamma pretended to be as degagie as I ; and yet 
I saw her blush in spite of her. Positively he is a 
most killing devil ! We did nothing but laugh all 
the time he staid with us ; I never heard so many 
very good things before : at first he mistook mamma 
for my sister ; at which she laughed : then he mis- 
took my natural complexion for paint ; at which I 
laughed : and then he showed us a picture in the 
lid of his snuff-box, at which we all laughed. He 
plays piquet so very ill, and is so very fond of cards, 
and loses with such a grace, that positively he has 
won me : I have got a cool hundred ; but have lost 
my heart. I need not tell you that he is only a 
colonel of the train-bands. I am, dear Charlotte, 
yours for ever, Belinda. 

The Chinese lady addresses her confidant, a poor 
relation of the family, upon the same occasion ; in 
which she seems to understand decorums even bet- 
ter than the Western beauty. You, who have re- 
sided so long in China, will readily acknowledge 
the picture to be taken from nature; and, by being 
acquainted with the Chinese customs, will better 
apprehend the lady's meaning. 

FROM YAOIJA TO YAYA. 

Papa insists upon one, two, three, four hundred 
taels from the colonel my lover, before he parts 
with a lock of my hair. Ho, how I wish the dear 
creature may be able to produce the money, and 
pay papa my fortune. The colonel is reckoned 
the poUtest man in all Shensi. The first visit he 
paid at our house, mercy, what stooping, and cring- 
ing, and stopping, and fidgeting, and going back, 
and creeping forward, there was between him and 
papa; one would have thought he had got the seven- 
teen books of ceremonies all by heart. When he 
was come into the hall he flourished his hands three 
times in a very graceful manner. Papa, who would 
not be outdone flourished his four times; upon this 
the colonel began again, and both thus continued 
flourishing for some minutes in the politest manner 
imaginable. I was posted in the usud place be- 
hind the screen, where I saw the whole ceremony 
through a slit. Of this the colonel was sensible, 
for papa informed him. I would have given the 
world to have shown him my little shoes, but had 



296 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



no opportunity. It was the first time I had ever 
the happiness of seeing any man but papa, and 1 
vow, my dear Yaya, I thought my three souls 
would actually have fled from my lips. Ho, but 
he looked most charmingly ; he is reckoned the 
best shaped man in the whole province, for he is 
very fat, and very short ; but even those natural 
advantages are improved by his dress, which is 
fashionable past description. His head was close 
shaven, all but the crown, and the hair of that was 
braided into a most beautiful tail, that reached 
down to his heels, and was terminated by a bunch 
of yellow roses. Upon his first entering the room, 
I could easily perceive he had been highly perfum- 
ed with assafoetida. But then his looks, his looks, 
my dear Yaya, were irresistible. He kept his 
eyes steadfastly fixed on the wall during the whole 
ceremony, and 1 sincerely believe no accident could 
have discomposed his gravity, or drawn his eyes 
away. After a polite silence of two hours, he 
gallantly begged to have the singing women in- 
troduced, purely for my amusement. After one 
of them had for some time entertained us with her 
voice, the colonel and she retired for some minutes to- 
gether. I thought they would never have come back : 
I must own he is a most agreeable creature. Upon 
his return, they again renewed the concert, and 
he continued to gaze upon the wall as usual, when 
in less than half an hour more, ho! but he retired 
out of the room with another. He is indeed a 
most agreeable creature. 

When he came to take his leave, the whole 
ceremony began afresh ; papa would see him to 
the door, but the colonel swore he would rather see 
the earth turned upside down than permit him to 
stir a single step, and papa was at last obliged to 
comply. As soon as he was got to the door, papa 
went out to see him on horseback ; here they con- 
tinued half an hour bowing and cringing, before 
one would mount or the other go in, but the colo- 
nel was at last victorious. He had scarce gone a 
hundred paces from the house, when papa, run- 
ning out, halloo'd after him, A good journey ; up- 
on which the colonel returned, and would see 
papa into his house before ever he would depart. 
He was no sooner got home than he sent me a 
very fine present of duck eggs painted of twenty 
different colours. His generosity I own has won 
me. I have ever since been trying over the eight; 
letters of good fortune, and have great hopes. All 
I have to apprehend is, that after he has married 
me, and that I am carried to his house close shut 
up in my chair, when he comes to have the first 
sight of my face, he may shut me up a second time 
and send me back to papa. However, I shall ap- 
pear as fine as possible : mamma and I have been to 
buy the clothes for my wedding. I am to have a 
new fong whang in my hair, the beak of which 
will reach down to my nose ; the milliner from 



whom we bought that and our ribands cheated us 
as if she had no conscience, and so to quiet mine I 
cheated her. All this is fair, you know. 1 remain, 
my dear Yaya, your ever faithful 

Yaotja. 



LETTER XL. 

From the Same. 

Yoa have always testified the highest esteem 
for the English poets, and thought, them not infe- 
rior to the Greeks, Romans, or even the Chinese, 
in the art. But it is now thought even by the 
English themselves, that the race of their poets is 
extinct ; every day produces some pathetic excla- 
mation upon the decadence of taste and genius. 
Pegasus, say they, has slipped the bridle from 
his mouth, and our modern bards attempt to direct 
his flight by catching him by the tail. 

Yet, my friend, it is only among the ignorant 
that such discourses prevail ; men of true discern- 
ment can see several poets still among the English 
some of whom equal if not surpass their predeces- 
sors. The ignorant term that alone poetry which 
is couched in a certain number of syllables in every 
line, where a vapid thought is drawn out into a 
number of verses of equal length, and perhaps 
pointed with rhymes at the end. But glowing 
sentiment, striking imagery, concise expression, 
natural description, and modulated periods, are full 
sufficient entirely to fill up my idea of this art, and 
make way to every passion. 

If my idea of poetry therefore be just, the Eng- 
lish are not at present so destitute of poetical merit 
as they seem to imagine. I can see several poets 
in disguise among them ; men furnished with that 
strength of soul, sublimity of sentiment, and gran- 
deur of expression, which constitute the character. 
Many of the writers of their modern odes, sonnets, 
tragedies, or rebuses, it is true, deserve not the 
name, though they have done nothing but clink 
rhymes and measure syllables for years together : 
their Johnsons and Smollets are truly poets ; though 
for aught I know they never made a single verse 
in their whole lives. 

In every incipient language, the poet and the 
prose writer are very distinct in their qualifica- 
tions; the poet ever proceeds first; treading un- 
beaten paths, enriching his native funds, and em- 
ployed in new adventures. The other follows with 
more cautious steps, and though slow in his mo- 
tions, treasures up every useful or pleasing disco- 
very. But when once all the extent and the force 
of the language is known, the poet then seems to 
rest from his labour, and is at length overtaken by 
his assiduous pursuer. Both characters are then 
blended into one ; the historian and orator catch 
all the poet's fire, and leave him no real mark of 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



a97 



distinction, except the iteration of numbers regu- 
larly returning. Thus, in the decline of ancient 
European learning, Seneca, though he wrote in 
prose, is as much a poet as Lucan, and Longinus, 
though but a critic, more sublime than Apollonius. 

Frcm this then it appears, that poetry is not 
discontinued, but altered among the English at pre- 
sent ; the outward form seems different from what 
it was, but poetry still continues internally the 
the same: the only question remains, whether the 
metric feet used by the good writers of the last age 
or the prosaic numbers employed by the good 
• writers of this, be preferable 1 And here the prac- 
tice of the last age appears to me superior : they 
submitted to the restraint of numbers and similar 
sounds : and this restraint, instead of diminishing, 
augmented the force of their sentiment and style. 
Fancy restrained may be compared to a fountain, 
which plays highest by diminishing the aperture. 
Of the truth of this maxim in every language, 
every fine writer is perfectly sensible from his own 
experience, and yet to explain the reason would 
be perhaps as difficult as to make a frigid genius 
profit by the discovery. 

There is still another reason in favour of the 
practice of the last age, to be drawn from the va- 
riety of modulation. The musical period in prose 
is confined to a very few changes : the numbers in 
verse are capable of infinite variation. I speak not 
now from the practice of modern verse-writers, few 
of whom have any idea of musical variety, but run 
on in the same monotonous flow through the whole 
poem; but rather from the example of their former 
poets, who were tolerable masters of this variety, 
and also frosn a capacity in the language of still 
admitting various unanticipated music. 

Several rules have been drawn up for varying 
the poetic measure, and critics have elaborately 
talked of accents and syllables ; but good sense and 
a fine ear, which rules can never teach, are what 
alone can in such a case determine. The raptur- 
ous flowings of joy, or the interruptions of in- 
dignation, require accents placed entirely different, 
and a structure consonant to the emotions they 
would express. Changing passions, and numbers 
changing with those passions, make the whole 
secret of Western as well as Eastern poetry. In 
a word, the great faults of the modern professed 
English poets are. that they seem to want numbers 
which should vary with the passion, and are more 
employed in describing to the imagination than 
striking at the heart. 



LETTER XLI. 

From the Same. 

Some time since I sent thee, O holy disciple of 
■Confucius, an account of the grand abbey or mau- 



soleum of the kings and heroes of this nation: I 
have since been introduced to a temple not so an- 
cient, but far superiour in beauty and magnificence. 
In this, which I's the most considerable of the em- 
pire, there are "o pompous inscriptions, no flattery 
paid the dead, but all is elegant and awfully simple. 
There are, however, a few rags hung round the 
walls, which have, at a vast expense, been taken 
from the enemy in the present war. The silk of 
which they are composed, when new, might be 
valued at half a string of copper money in China ; 
yet this wise people fitted out a fleet and an army 
in order to seize them, though now grown old, and 
scarcely capable of being patched up into a hand- 
kerchief. By this conquest, the English are said 
to have gained, and the French to have lost, much 
honour. Is the honour of European nations placed 
only in tattered silk 1 

In this temple I was permitted to remain during 
the whole service ; and were you not already ac- 
quainted with the religion of the English, you 
might, from my description, be inclined to believe 
them as grossly idolatrous as the disciples of Lao. 
The idol which they seem to address, strides like a 
colossus over the door of the inner temple, which 
here, as with the Jews, is esteemed the most sacred 
part of the building. Its oracles are delivered in a 
hundred various tones, which seem to inspire the 
worshippers with enthusiasm and awe: an old 
woman, who appeared to be the priestess, was em- 
ployed in various attitudes as she felt the inspira- 
tion. When it began to speak, all the people re- 
mained fixed in silent attention, nodding assent, 
looking approbation, appearing highly edified by 
those sounds which to a stranger might seem inar- 
ti(;ulate and unmeaning. 

When the idol had done speaking, and the 
priestess had locked up its lungs with a key, ob- 
serving almost all the company leaving the temple, 
I concluded the service was over, and taking my 
hat, was going to walk away with the crowd, when 
I was stopped by the man in black, who assured 
me that the ceremony had scarcely yet begun! 
What, cried I, do I not see almost the whole 
body of the worshippers leaving the church? 
Would you persuade me that such numbers who 
profess religion and morality, would, in this shame- 
less manner, quit the temple before the service was 
concluded'? You surely mistake: not even the 
Kalmucks would be guilty of such an indecency, 
though all the object of their worship was but a 
joint-stool. My friend seemed to blush for his 
countrymen, assuring me that those whom I saw 
running away, were only a parcel of musical block- 
heads, whose passion was merely for sounds, and 
whose heads were as empty as a fiddle-case : those 
who remain behind, says he, are the true religious; 
they make use of music to warm their hearts, and 
to lift them to a proper pitch of rapture : examine 



S98 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



their behaviour, and you will confess there are some 
among us who practise true devotion. 

I now looked round me as directed, but saw 
nothing of that fervent devotion which he had 
promised : one of the worshippers appeared to be 
ogling the company through a glass ; another was 
fervent, not in addresses to Heaven, but to his mis- 
tress; a third whispered, a fourth took snuff, and 
the priest himself, in a drowsy tone, read over the 
duties of the day. 

Bless my eyes, cried I, as I happened to look to- 
wards the door, what do I see ! one of the worship- 
pers fallen fast asleep, and actually sunk down on 
his cushion! Is he now enjoying the benefit of a 
trance, or does he receive the influence of some 
mysterious vision? Alas! Alas! replied my com- 
panion, no such, thing ; he has only had the mis- 
fortune of eating too hearty a dinner, and finds 
it impossible to keep his eyes open. Turning to 
another part of the temple, I perceived a young 
lady just in the same circumstances and attitude : 
Strange! cried I, can she too have over-eaten her- 
self? O fie ! replied my friend, you now grow 
censorious. She grow drowsy from eating too 
much! that would be a profanation! She only 
sleeps now from having sat up all night at a brag 
party. Turn me where I will then, says I, I can 
perceive no single symptom of devotion among the 
worshippers, except from that old woman in the 
comer, who sits groaning behind the long sticks 
of a mourning fan; she indeed seems greatly edi- 
fied with what she hears. Ay, replied my friend, 
I knew we should find some to catch you ; I know 
her; that is the deaf lady who lives in the clois- 
ters. 

In short, the remissness of behaviour in almost all 
the worshippers, and some even of the guardians, 
struck me with surprise. I had been taught to be- 
lieve that none were ever promoted to offices in the 
temple, but men remarkable for their superior 
sanctity, learning, and rectitude; that there was 
no such thing heard of, as persons being introduced 
into the church merely to oblige a senator, or pro- 
vide for the younger branch of a noble family : I 
expected, as their minds were continually set upon 
heavenly things, to see their eyes directed there 
also; and hoped, from their behaviour, to perceive 
their incUnations corresponding with their duty. 
But I am since informed, that some are appointed 
to preside over temples they never visit; and, 
while they receive all the money, are contented 
with letting others do all the good. Adieu. 



LETTER XLII. 

From Fum Hoam, to Lien Chi Altangi, tlie discontented 
Wanderer, by the way of Moscow. 

Must I ever continue to condemn thy persever- 
ance, and blame that curiosity which destroys thy 



happiness! What yet untasted banquet, what lux- 
ury yet unknown, has rewarded thy painful ad- 
ventures? Name a pleasure which thy native coun- 
try could not amply procure ; frame a wish that 
might not have been satisfied in China! Why then 
such toil, and such danger, in pursuit of raptures 
within your reach at home? 

The Europeans, you will say, excel us in sci- 
ences and in arts; those sciences which bound the 
aspiring wish, and those arts which tend to gratify 
even unrestrained desire. They may perhaps out- 
do us in the arts of building ships, casting cannons, 
or measuring mountains ; but are they superior in 
the greatest of all arts, the art of governing king- 
doms and ourselves? 

When I compare the history of China with that 
of Europe, how do I exult in being a native of that 
kingdom which derives its original from the sun. 
Upon opening the Chinese history, I there behold 
an ancient extended empire, established by laws 
which nature and reason seem to have dictated. 
The duty of children to their parents, a duty which 
nature implants in every breast, forms the strength 
of that government, which has subsisted for time 
immemorial. Filial obedience is the first and great- 
est requisite of a state ; by this we become good 
subjects to our emperors, capable of behaving with 
just subordination to our superiors, and grateful 
dependants on Heaven: by this we become fonder 
of marriage, in order to be capable of exacting 
obedience from others in our turn : by this we be- 
come good magistrates ; for early submission is the 
truest lesson to those who would learn to rule. By 
this the whole state may be said to resemble one 
family, of which the emperor is the protector, 
father, and friend. 

In this happy region, sequestered from the rest 
of mankind, I see a succession of princes who in 
general considered themselves as the fathers of their 
people ; a race of philosophers who bravely com- 
bated idolatry, prejudice, and tyranny, at the ex- 
pense of their private happiness and immediate 
reputation. Whenever a usurper or a tyrant in- 
truded into the administration, how have all the 
good and great been united against him! Can Eu- 
ropean history produce an instance like that of the 
twelve mandarines, who all resolved to apprize the 
vicious emperor Tisiang of the irregularity of his 
conduct? He who first undertook the dangerous 
task was cut in two by the emperor's order; the 
second was ordered to be tormented, and then put 
to a cruel death : the third undertook the task with 
intrepidity, and was instantly stabbed by the ty- 
rant's hand: in this manner they all suffered ex- 
cept one. But not to be turned from his purpose, 
the brave survivor, entering the palace with the 
instruments of torture in his hand. Here, cried he, 
addressing himself to the throne, here, O Tisiang, 
are the marks your faithful subjects receive for 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



299 



their loyalty ; lam wearied with serving a tyrant, 
and now come for my reward. The emperor, 
struck with his intrepidity, instantly forgave the 
boldness of his conduct, and reformed his own. 
What European annals can thus boast of a tyrant 
thus reclaimed to lenity? 

When five brethren had set upon the great em- 
peror Ginsong alone, with his sabre he slew four 
of them; he was stuggling with the fifth, when his 
guards coming up were going to cut the conspi- 
ator into a thousand pieces. No, no, cried the 
emperor with a calm and placid countenance, of all 
his brothers he is the only one remaining, at least 
let one of the family be svffered to live, that his 
aged parents may haw somebody left to feed and 
comfort them ! 

When Haitong, the last emperor of the house 
of Ming, saw himself besieged in his own city by 
the usurper, he was resolved to issue from his pa- 
lace with six hundred of his guards, and give the 
enemy battle; but they forsook him. Being thus 
without hopes, and choosing death rather than to 
fall alive into the hands of a rebel, he retired to his 
garden, conducting his little daughter, an only 
child, in his hand ; there, in a private arbour, un- 
sheathing his sword, he stabbed the young inno- 
cent to the heart, and then dispatched himself, leav- 
ing the following words written with his blood on 
the border of his vest : Forsaken by my subjects, 
abandoned by my friends, use my body as you 
will, but spare, O spare my people t 

An empire which has thus continued invariably 
the same for such a long succession of ages ; which, 
though at last conquered by the Tartars, still pre- 
serves its ancient laws and learning, and may more 
properly be said to annex the dominions of Tartary 
to its empire, than to admit a foreign conquerer ; an 
empire as large as Europe, governed by one law, ac- 
knowledging subjection to one prince, and experi- 
encing but one revolution of any continuance in the 
space of four thousand years ; this is something so 
peculiarly great, that I am naturally led to despise all 
other nations on the comparison. Here we see no 
religious persecutions, no enmity between man- 
^kind, for difference in opinion. The disciples of 
Lao Kium, the idolatrous sectaries of Fohi, and the 
philosophical children of Confucius, only strive to 
show by their actions the truth of their doctrines. 

Now turn from this happy, peaceful scene, to 
Europe, the theatre of intrigue, avarice, and ambi- 
tion. How many revolutions does it not experience 
in the compass even of one age 1 and to what do 
these revolutions tend but the destruction of thou- 
sands! Every great event is replete with some new 
calamity. The seasons of serenity are passed over 
in silence, their histories seem to speak only of the 
storm. 

There we see the Romans extending their pow- 
er over barbarous nations, and in turn becoming a 



prey to those whom they had conquered. We see 
those barbarians, when become Christians, engaged 
in a continual war with the followers of Mahomet; 
or, more dreadful still, destroying each other. We 
see councils in the earlier ages authorizing every 
iniquity; crusades spreading desolation in the 
country left, as well as that to be conquered ; ex- 
communications freeing subjects from natural alle- 
giance, and persuading to sedition ; blood flowing 
in the fields and on scafTolds; tortures used as ar- 
guments to convince the recusant; to heighten the 
horror of the piece, behold it shaded with wars, re- 
bellions, treasons, plots, politics, and poison. 

And what advantage has any country of Europe 
obtained from such calamities? Scarcely any. Their 
dissensions for more than a thousand years have 
served to make each other unhappy, but have enrich- 
ed none. All the great nations still nearly preserve 
their ancient limits ; none have been able to subdue 
the other, and so terminate the dispute. France, 
in spite of the conquests of Edward the Third and 
Henry the Fifth, notwithstanding the efibrts of 
Charles the Fifth and Philip the Second, still re- 
mains within its ancient limits. Spain, Germany, 
Great Britain, Poland, the States of the North, 
are nearly still the same. What effect then has 
the blood of so many thousands, the destruction of 
so many cities, produced? Nothing either great or 
considerable. The Christian princes have lost in- 
deed much from the enemies of Christendom, but 
they have gained nothing from each other. Their 
princes, because they preferred ambition to justice, 
deserve the character of enemies to mankind; and 
their priests, by neglecting morality for opinion, 
have mistaken the interests of society. 

On whatever side we regard the history of Eu- 
rope, we shall perceive it to be a tissue of crimes, 
follies, and misfortunes, of politics without design, 
and wars without consequence : in this long list of 
human infirmity, a great character, or a shining 
virtue, may sometimes happen to arise, as we often 
meet a cottage or a cultivated spot in the most 
hideous wilderness. But for an Alfred, an Alphon- 
so, a Frederick, or an Alexander III., we meet a 
thousand princes who have disgraced humanity. 



LETTER XLIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of tlie 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

We have just received accounts here, that Vol- 
taire, the poet and philosopher of Europe, is dead ! 
He is now beyond the reach of the thousand ene- 
mies, who. while living, degraded his writings, and 
branded his character. Scarcely a page of his lat- 
ter productions, that does not betray the agonies of 
a heart bleeding under the scourge of unmerited 



300 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



reproach. Happy, therefore, at last in escaping 
from calumny ; happy in leaving a world that was 
unworthy of him and his writings! 

Let others, my friend, bestrew the hearses of the 
great with panegyric; but such a loss as the world 
has now suffered, affects me with stronger emo- 
tions. When a philosopher dies, I consider my- 
self as losing a patron, an instructor, and a friend. 
I consider the world losing one who might serve to 
console her amidst the desolations of war and am- 
bition. Nature every day produces in abundance 
men capable of filling all the requisite duties of au- 
thority ; but she is niggard in the birth of an exalt- 
ed mind, scarcely producing in a century a single 
genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age. 
Prodigal in the production of lungs, governors, 
mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to 
have forgotten, for more than three thousand years, 
the manner in which she once formed the brain of 
a Confucius ; and well it is she has forgotten, when 
a bad world gave him so very bad a reception. 

Whence, my friend, this malevolence which has 
ever pursued the great even to the tomb? whence 
this more than fiend-like disposition of embittering 
the lives of those who would make us more wise 
and more happy? 

When I cast my eye over the fates of several 
philosophers, who have at different periods enlight 
ened mankind, I must confess it inspires me with 
the most degrading reflections on humanity. When 
I read of the stripes of Mentius, the tortures of 
Tchin, the bowl of Socrates, and the bath of Sene- 
ca ; when I hear of the persecutions of Dante, the 
imprisonment of Galileo, the indignities suffered 
by Montaigne, the banishment of Cartesius, the 
infamy of Bacon, and that even Locke himself es- 
caped not without reproach ; when I think on such 
subjects, I hesitate whether most to blame the ig- 
norance or the villany of my fellow-creatures. 

Should you look for the character of Voltaire 
among the journalists and illiterate writers of the 
age, you will there find him characterized as a 
monster, with a head turned to wisdom, and a heart 
inclining to vice ; the powers of his mind and the 
baseness of his principles forming a detestable con- 
trast. But seek for his character among writers 
like himself, and you find him very differently de- 
scribed. You perceive him, in their accounts, 
possessed of good-nature, humanity, greatness of 
soul, fortitude, and almost every virtue; in this 
description, those who might be supposed best ac- 
quainted with his character are unanimous. The 
royal Prussian,* d' Argents,t Diderot,? d' Alembert, 
and Fontenelle, conspire, in drawing the picture, 
in describing the friend of man, and the patron of 
every rising genius. 



* Philosophe sans souci. t Let. Chin. } Encyclopid, 



An inflexible perseverance in what he thought 
was right, and a generous detestation of flattery, 
formed the groundwork of this great man's charac- 
ter. From these principles many strong virtues 
and few faults arose : as he was warm in his friend- 
ship, and severe in his resentment, all that mention 
him seem possessed of the same qualities, and 
speak of him with rapture or detestation. A per- 
son of his eminence can have few indifferent as to 
his character ; every reader must be an enemy or 
an admirer. 

This poet began the course of glory so early as 
the age of eighteen, and even then was author of a 
tragedy which deserves applause. Possessed of a 
small patrimony, he preserved his independence in 
an age of venality, and supported the dignity of 
learning, by teaching his contemporary writers to 
live like him above the favours of the great. He 
was banished his native country for a satire upon 
the royal concubine. He had accepted the place 
of historian to the French king, but refused to keep 
it, when he found it was presented only in order 
that he should be the first flatterer of the state. 

The great Prussian received him as an orna- 
ment to his kingdom, and had sense enough to 
value his friendship, and profit by his instructions. 
In this court he continued till an intrigue, with 
which the world seems hitherto unacquainted, ob- 
liged him to quit that country. His own happiness, 
the happiness of the monarch, of his sister, of a 
part of the court, rendered his departure neces- 
sary. 

Tired at length of courts, and all the follies of 
the great, he retired to Switzerland, a country of 
liberty, where he enjoyed tranquillity and the muse. 
Here, though without any taste for magnificence 
himself, he usually entertained at his table the 
learned and polite of Europe, who were attracted 
by a desire of seeing a person from whom they had 
received so much satisfaction. The entertainment 
was conducted with the utmost elegance, and the 
conversation was that of philosophers. Every 
country that at once united liberty and science, was 
his peculiar favourite. The being an Englishman 
was to him a character that claimed admiration 
and respect. 

Betvsreen Voltaire and the disciples of Confucius, 
there are many differences ; however, being of a 
different opinion does not in the least diminish my 
esteem : I am not displeased wjth my brother, be- 
cause he happens to ask our father for favours in a 
different manner from me. Let his errors rest in 
peace, his excellencies deserve admiration; let me 
with the wise admire his wisdom ; let the envious 
and the ignorant ridicule his foibles : the folly of 
others is ever most ridiculous to those who are 
themselves most fooUsh. Adieu. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



301 



LETTER XLIV. 

From Lien Clii Altangi toHingpo, a Slave in Persia. 

It is impossible to form a philosophic system of 
happiness, which is adapted to every condition in 
life, since every person who travels in this great 
pursuit takes a separate road. The differing colours 
which suit different complexions, are not more 
various than the different pleasures appropriated to 
different minds. The various sects who have pre- 
tended to give lessons to instruct me in happiness, 
have described their own particular sensations 
without considering ours, have only loaded their 
disciples with constraint, without adding to their 
real felicity. 

If I find pleasure in dancing, how ridiculous 
would it be in me to prescribe such an amusement 
for the entertainment of a cripple : should he, on 
the other hand, place his chief delight in painting, 
yet would he be absurd in recommending the same 
relish to one who had lost the power of distinguish- 
ing colours. General directions are, therefore, com- 
monly useless : and to be particular would exhaust 
volumes, since each individual may require a par- 
ticular system of precepts to direct his choice. 

Every mind seems capable of entertaining a cer- 
tain quantity of happiness, which no institutions 
can increase, no circumstances alter, and entirely 
independent of fortune. Let any man compare his 
present fortune with the past, and he will probably 
find himself, upon the whole, neither better nor 
worse than formerly. 

Gratified ambition, or irreparable calamity, may 
produce transient sensations of pleasure or distress. 
Those storms may discompose in proportion as 
they are strong, or the mind is pliant to their im- 
pression. But the soul, though at first lifted up 
by the event, is every day operated upon with di- 
minished influence, and at length subsides into the 
level of its usual tranquillity. Should some unex- 
pected turn of fortune take thee from fetters, and 
place thee on a throne, exultation would be natural 
upon the change; but the temper, like the face, 
would soon resume its native serenity. 

Every wish, therefore, which leads us to expect 
happiness somewhere else but where we are, every 
institution which teaches us that we should be bet- 
ter by being possessed of something new, which 
promises to lift us a step higher than we are, only 
lays a foundation fqt uneasiness, because it con- 
tracts debts which we can not repay; it calls that 
a good, which, when we have found it, will, in fact, 
add nothing to our happiness. 

To enjoy the present, without regret for the past 
or solicitude for the future, has been the advice ra- 
ther of poets than philosophers. And yet the pre- 
cept seems more rational than is generally imagined. 
It is the only general precept respecting the pursuit 



of happiness, that can be applied with propriety to 
every condition of life. The man of pleasure, the 
man of business, and the philosopher, are equally 
interested in its disquisition. If we do not find 
happiness in the present moment, in what shall we 
find it? either in reflecting on the past, or prognos- 
ticating the future. But let us see how these are 
capable of producing satisfaction. 

A remembrance of what is past, and an antici- 
pation of what is to come, seem to be the two facul- 
ties by which man differs most from other animals. 
Though brutes enjoy them in a limited degree, yet 
their whole life seems taken up in the present, re- 
gardless of the past and the future. Man, on the 
contrary, endeavours to derive his happiness, and 
experiences most of his miseries, from these two 
sources. 

Is this superiority of reflection a prerogative of 
which we should boast, and for which we should 
thank nature ; or is it a misfortune of which we 
should complain and be humble ? Either from the 
abuse, or from the nature of things, it certainly 
makes our condition more miserable. 

Had we a privilege of calling up, by the power 
of memory, only such passages as were pleasing, 
unmixed with such as were disagreeable, we might 
then excite at pleasure an ideal happiness, per- 
haps more poignant than actual sensation. But 
this is not the case : the past is never represented 
without some disagreeable circumstance, which 
tarnishes all its beauty ; the remembrance of an evil 
carries in it nothing agreeable, and to remember a 
good is always accompanied with regret. Thus 
we lose more than we gain by the remembrance. 

And we shall find our expectation of the future 
to be a gift more distressful even than the former. 
To fear an approaching evil is certainly a most 
disagreeable sensation: and in expecting an ap- 
proaching good, we experience the inquietude of 
wanting actual possession. 

Thus, whichever way we look, the prospect is 
disagreeable. Behind, we have left pleasures we 
shall never more enjoy, and therefore regret ; and 
before, we see pleasures which we languish to pos- 
sess, and are consequently uneasy till we possess 
them. Was there any method of seizing the pre- 
sent, unembittered by such reflections, then would 
our state be tolerably easy. 

This, indeed, is the endeavour of all mankind, 
who, untutored by philosophy, pursue as much as 
they can a life of amusement and dissipation. 
Every rank in life, and every size of understand- 
ing, seems to follow this alone ; or not pursuing it, 
deviates from happiness. The man of pleasure 
pursues dissipation by profession ; the man of busi- 
ness pursues it not less, as every voluntary labour 
he undergoes is only dissipation in disguise. The 
philosopher himself, even while he reasons upon the 
subject, does it unknowingly, with a view of dissi- 



302 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



pating the thoughts of what he was, or what he 
must be. 

The subject therefore comes to this : which is 
the most perfect sort of dissipation— pleasure, busi- 
ness, or philosophy'? Which best serves to exclude 
those uneasy sensations which memory or antici- 
pation produce ? 

The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by in- 
tervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a mo- 
ment ; and all the senses seem so combined as to 
be soon tired into languor by the gratification of 
any one of them. It is only among the poets we 
hear of men changing to one delight, when satiated 
with another. In nature it is very different : the 
glutton, when sated with the full meal, is unquali- 
fied to feel the real pleasure of drinking ; the drunk- 
ard in turn finds few of those transports which 
lovers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when 
cloyed, finds a diminution of every other appetite. 
Thus, after a full indulgence of any one sense, the 
man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in 
a chasm between past and expected enjoyment, 
perceives an interval which must be filled up. The 
present can give no satisfaction, because he has 
already robbed it of every charm : a mind thus left 
without immediate employment, naturally recurs 
to the past or future ; the reflector finds that he was 
happy, and knows that he can not be so now ; he 
sees that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour 
was come : thus every period of his continuance is 
miserable, except that very short one of immediate 
gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none 
has more frequent conversations with disagreeable 
self than he ; his enthusiasms are but few and 
transient; his appetites, like angry creditors, con- 
tinually making fruitless demands for what he is 
unable to pay; and the greater his former pleasure, 
the more strong his regret, the more impatient his 
expectations. A life of pleasure is therefore the 
most unpleasing life in the world. 

Habit has rendered the man of business more 
cool in his desires ; he finds less regret for past 
pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come, 
The life he now leads, though tainted in some 
measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly 
with regret, and is less divided between short-lived 
rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he 
has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to 
expect can not consequently create so much anxiety. 

The philosopher, who extends his regard to all 
mankind, must still have a smaller concern for what 
has already affected, or may hereafter affect him- 
self: the concerns of others make his whole study, 
and that study is his pleasure ; and this pleasure is 
continuing in its nature, because it can be changed 
at will, leaving but few of these anxious intervals 
which are employed in remembrance or anticipa- 
tion. The philosopher by this means leads a Ufe 
of almost continued dissipation; and reflection, 



which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, 
serves as a companion and instructor to him. 

In a word, positive happiness is constitutional, 
and incapable of increase ; misery is artificial, and 
generally proceeds from our folly. Philosophy can 
add to our happiness in no other manner, but by 
diminishing our misery : it should not pretend to 
increase our present stock, but make us economists 
of what we are possessed of. The great source of 
calamity lies in regret or anticipation; he, therefore, 
is most wise, who thinks of the present alone, re- 
gardless of the past or the future. This is impos- 
sible to the man of pleasure ; it is difficult to the 
man of business ; and is in some measure attainable 
by the philosopher. Happy were we all born 
philosophers, all born with a talent of thus dissi- 
pating our owrn cares, by spreading them upon all 
mankind! Adieu. 



LETTER XL V. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, toFum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

Though the frequent invitations I receive from 
men of distinction here might excite the vanity of 
some, I am quite mortified, however, when I con- 
sider the motives that inspire their civiUty. I am 
sent for not to be treated as a friend, but to satisfy 
curiosity ; not to be entertained so much as wonder- 
ed at ; the same earnestness which excites them to 
see a Chinese, would have made them equally 
proud of a visit from the rhinoceros. 

From the highest to the lowest, this people seem 
fond of sights and monsters. I am told of a person 
here who gets a very comfortable livelihood by 
making wonders, and then selling or showing them 
to the people for money ; no matter how insigni- 
ficant they were in the beginning, by locking them 
up close, and showing for money, they soon be- 
come prodigies ! His first essay in this way was 
to exhibit himself as a wax-work figure behind a 
glass door at a puppet-show. Thus, keeping the 
spectators at a proper distance, and having his head 
adorned with a copper crown, he looked extremely 
natural, and very like the life itself. He continued 
this exhibition with success, till an involuntary fit 
of sneezing brought him to life before all the spec- 
tators, and consequently rendered him for that time 
as entirely useless as the peaceable inhabitant of a 
catacomb. 

Determined to act the statue no more, he next 
levied contributions under the figure of an Indian 
king; and by painting his face, and counterfeiting 
the savage howl, he frighted several ladies and 
children with amazing success : in this manner, 
therefore, he might have Uved very comfortably^ 
had he not been arrested for a debt that was coft- 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



303 



tracted when he was the figure in wax-work ; thus 
his face underwent an involuntary ablution, and 
he found himself reduced to his primitive complex- 
ion and indigence. 

After some time, being freed from gaol, he was 
now grown wiser, and instead of making himself a 
wonder, was resolved only to make wonders. He 
learned the art of pasting up mummies; was never 
at a loss for an artificial liisus natures ; nay, it has 
been reported, that he has sold seven petrified lob 
stars of his own manufacture to a noted collector of 
rarities; but this the learned CracoviusPutridushas 
undertaken to refute in a very elaborate dissertation. 
His last wonder was nothing more than a halter, 
yet by this halter he gained more than by all his 
former exhibitions. The people, it seems, had got 
it in their heads, that a certain noble criminal was 
to be hanged with a silken rope. Now there was 
nothing they so much wished to see as this very 
rope ; and he was resolved to gratify their curiosity 
he therefore got one made, not only of silk, but to 
render it more striking, several threads of gold were 
intermixed. The people paid their money only to 
see silk, but were highly satisfied when they found 
it was mixed with gold into the bargain. It is 
scarcely necessary to mention, that the projector 
sold his silken rope for almost what it had cost 
him, as soon as the criminal was known to be 
hanged in hempen materieJs. 

By their fondness of sights, one would be apt to 
imagine, that instead of desiring to see things as 
they should be, they are rather solicitous of seeing 
them as they ought not to be. A cat with four 
legs is disregarded, though never so useful ; but if 
it has but two, and is consequently incapable of 
catching mice, it is reckoned inestimable, and every 
man of taste is ready to raise the auction. A man, 
though in his person faultless as an aerial genius, 
might starve; but if stuck over with hideous warts 
like a porcupine, his fortune is made for ever, and 
he may propagate the breed with impunity and 
applause. 

A good woman in mj' neighbourhood, who was 
bred a habit-maker, though she handled her needle 
tolerably well, could scarcely get employment. But 
being obliged, by an accident, to have both her 
hands cut off from the elbows, what would in 
another country have been her ruin, made her for- 
tune here : she now was thought more fit for her 
trade than before ; business fiowed in apace, and all 
people paid for seeing the mantua-maker who 
wrought without hands. 

A gentleman showing me his collection of pic- 
tures, stopped at one with peculiar admiration: 
there, cries he, is an inestimable piece. I gazed at 
the picture for some time, but could see none of 
those graces with which he seemed enraptured; 
it appeared to me the most paltry piece of the whole 
collection : I therefore demanded where those beau- 



ties lay, of which I was yet insensible. Sir, cries 
he, the merit does not consist in the piece, but in 
the manner in which it was done. The painter 
drew the whole with his foot, and held the pencil 
between his toes: I bought it at a very great price; 
for pecuUar merit should ever be rewarded. 

But these people are not more fond of wonders, 
than Uberal in rewarding those who show them. 
From the wonderful dog of knowledge, at present 
under the patronage of the nobiUty, down to the 
man with the box, who professes to show the best 
imitation of Nature that was ever seen, they all 
live in luxury. A singing-woman shall collect 
subscriptions in her own coach and six ; a fellow 
shall make a fortune by tossing a straw from his toe 
to his nose ; one in particular has found that eating 
fire was the most ready way to live ; and another 
who jingles several bells fixed to his cap, is the 
only man that I know of, who has received emolu- 
ment from the labours of his head. 

A young author, a man of good-nature and 
learning, was complaining to me some nights ago 
of this misplaced generosity of the times. Here, 
says he, have I spent part of my youth in attempt- 
ing to instruct and amuse my fellow-creatures, and 
all my reward has been solitude, poverty, and re- 
proach ; while a fellow, possessed of even the small- 
est share of fiddling merit, or who has perhaps 
learned to whistle double, is rewarded, apjkauded, 
and caressed! Pr'ythee, young man, says I to him, 
are you ignorant, that in so large a city as this, it 
is better to be an amusing than a useful member of 
society? Can you leap up, and touch your feet 
four times before you come to the ground? No, 
sir. Can you pimp for a man of quality? No, 
sir. Can you stand upon two horses at full speed? 
No, sir. Can you swallow a pen-knife? I can do 
none of these tricks. Why then, cried I, there is 
no other prudent mean of subsistence left, but to 
apprise the town that you speedily intend to eat 
up your owTi nose, by subscription. 

I have frequently regretted that none of our 
Eastern posture-masters, or showmen, have ever 
ventured to England. I should be pleased to see 
that money circulate in Asia, which is now sent to 
Italy and France, in order to bring their vagabonds 
hither. Several of our tricks would undoubtedly 
give the English high satisfaction. JVIen of fashion 
would be greatly pleased with the postures as weU 
as the condescension of our dancing-girls; and the 
ladies would equally admire the conductors of our 
fire-works. What an agreeable surprise would it 
be to see a huge fellow with whiskers flash a 
charged blunderbuss full in a lady's face, without 
singeing her hair, or melting her pomatum. Per- 
haps, when the first surprise was over, she might 
then grow familiar with danger; and the ladies 
might vie with each other in standing fire with in- 
trepidity. 



304 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



But of all the wonders of the East, the most use- 
ful, and I should fancy the most pleasing, would 
be the looking-glass of Lao, which reflects the 
mind as well as the body. It is said that the Em- 
peror Chusi, used to make his concubines dress their 
heads and their hearts in one of these glasses eve- 
ry morning : while the lady was at her toilet, he 
would frequently look over her shoulder ; and it 
is recorded, that among the three hundred which 
composed his seraglio, not one was found whose 
mind was not even more beautiful than her per- 
son. 

I make no doubt but a glass in this country 
would have the very same effect. The English 
ladies, concubines and all, would undoubtedly cut 
very pretty figures in so faithful a monitor. There 
should we happen to peep over a lady's shoulder 
while dressing, we might be able to see neither 
gaming nor ill-nature ; neither pride, debauchery, 
nor a love of gadding. We should find her, if 
any sensible defect appeared in the mind, more 
careful in rectifying it, than plastering up the ir- 
reparable decays of the person; nay, I am even 
apt to fancy, that ladies would find more real plea- 
sure in this utensil in private, than in any other 
bauble imported from China, though ever so ex- 
pensive or amusing. 



LETTER XLVL 



To the Same. 



Upon finishing my last letter, I retired to rest, 
reflecting upon the wonders of the glass of Lao, 
wishing to be possessed of one here, and resolved 
in such a case to oblige every lady with a sight of 
it for nothing. What fortune denied me waking, 
fancy supplied in a dream : the glass, I know not 
how, was put into possession, and I could perceive 
several ladies approaching, some voluntarily, others 
driven forward against their wills, by a set of dis- 
contented genii, whom by intuition I knew were 
their husbands. 

The apartment in which I was to show away 
was filled with several gaming-tables, as if just for- 
saken : the candles were burnt to the socket, and 
the hour was five o'clock in the morning. Placed 
at one end of the room, which was of prodigious 
length, 1 could more easily distinguish every female 
figure as she marched up from the door ; but guess 
my surprise, when I could scarcely perceive one 
blooming or agreeable face among the number. 
This, hov?ever, 1 attributed to the early hour, and 
kindly considered that the face of a lady just risen 
from bed, ought always to find a compassionate 
advocate. 

The first person who came up in order to view 
her intellectual face was a commoner's wife, who, 
as I afterward found, being bred up during her 



virginity in a pawnbroker's shop, now attempted 
to make up the defects of breeding and sentiment 
by the magnificence of her dress, and the expen- 
siveness of her amusements. Mr. Showmanj 
cried she, approaching, I am told you has some- 
thing to show in that there sort of magic-lantern, 
by which folks can see themselves on the inside : 
1 protest, as my Lord Beetle says, I am sure it will 
be vastly pretty, for I have never seen any thing 
like it before. But how; are we to strip oif our 
clothes and be turned inside outl if so, as Lord 
Beetle says, I absolutely declare off; for I would 
not strip for the world before a man's face, and so 
I tells his lordship almost every night of my life. 
I informed the lady that I would dispense with the 
ceremony of stripping, and immediately presented 
my glass to her view. 

As when a first-rate beauty, after having with 
difficulty escaped the small-pox, revisits her fa- 
vourite mirror — that mirror which had repeated 
the flattery of every lover, and even added force 
to the compliment, — expecting to see what had 
so often given her pleasure, she no longer beholds 
the cherry lip, the pohshed forehead, and speaking 
blush ; but a hateful phiz, quilted into a thousand 
seams by the hand of deformity ; grief, resentment, 
and rage, fill her bosom by turns : she blames the 
fates and the stars, but most of all, the unhappy 
glass feels her resentment : so it was with the lady 
in question ; she had never seen her own mind be- 
fore, and was now shocked at its deformity. One 
single look was sufficient to satisfy her curiosity ; 
I held up the glass to her face, and she shut her 
eyes ; no entreaties could prevail upon her to gaze 
once more. She was even going to snatch it from 
my hands and break it in a thousand pieces. I 
found it was time, therefore, to dismiss her as incor- 
rigible, and show away to the next that offered. 

This was an unmarried lady, who continued in 
a state of virginity till thirty-six, and then admitted 
a lover when she despaired of a husband. No 
woman was louder at a revel than she, perfectly 
free hearted, and almost in every respect a man : 
she understood ridicule to perfection, and was once 
known even to sally out in order to beat the watch. 
" Here, you my dear with the outlandish face 
(said she, addressing me), let me take a single 
peep. Not that I care three damns what figure I 
may cut in the glass of such an old-fashioned crea- 
ture ; if I am allowed the beauties of the face by 
people of fashion, I know the world will be com- 
plaisant enough to toss me the beauties of the 
mind into the bargain." I held ray glass before 
her as she desired, and must confess was shocked 
with the reflection. The lady, however, gazed for 
some time with the utmost complacency ; and at 
last, turning to me, with the most satisfied smile 
said, she never could think she had been half so 
handsome. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



305 



Upon her dismission, a lady of distinction was 
reluctantly hauled along to the glass by her hus- 
band. In bringing her forward, as he came first 
to the glass himself, his mind appeared tinctured 
with iumioderate jealousy, and I was going to re- 
proach him for using her with such severity ; but 
when the lady came to present herself, I immedi- 
ately retracted ; for, alas ! it was seen that he had 
but too much reason for his suspicions. 

The next was a lady who usually teased all her 
acquaintance in desiring to be told of her faults, 
and then never mended any. Upon approaching 
the glass, I could readily perceive vanity, affecta- 
tion, and some other ill-looking blots on her mind ; 
wherefore, by my advice, she immediately set 
about mending. But I could easily find she was 
not earnest in the work ; for as she repaired them 
on one side, they generally broke out on another. 
Thus, after three or four attempts, she began to 
make the ordinary use of the glass in settling her 
hair. . 

The company now made room for a woman of 
learning, who approached with a slow pace and 
solemn countenance, which, for her own sake, 1 
could wish had been cleaner. Sir," cried the ladj^, 
flourishing her hand, which held a pinch of snuff, 
" 1 shall be enraptured by having presented to my 
•view a mind with which I have so long studied to 
be acquainted ; but, in order to give the sex a pro- 
per example, I must insist, that all the company 
may be permitted to look over my shoulder." I 
bowed assent, and presenting the glass, showed the 
lady a mind by no means so fair as she had expect- 
ed to see. Ill-nature, ill-placed pride, and spleen, 
were too legible to be mistaken. Nothing could be 
more amusing than the mirth of her female com- 
panions who had looked over. They had hated 
her from the beginning, and now the apartment 
echoed with a universal laugh. Nothing but a 
fortitude like her's could have withstood their rail- 
lery : she stood it, however ; and when the burst 
was exhausted, with great tranquillity she assured 
the company, that the whole was a deceptio visus, 
and that she was too well acquainted with her own 
mind to believe any false representations from 
another. Thus saying, she retired with a sullen 
satisfaction, resolved not to mend her faults, but to 
write a criticism on the mental reflector. 

I must own, by this time, I began myself to sus- 
pect the fidelity of my mirror ; for, as the ladies ap- 
peared at least to have the merit of rising early, 
since they were up at five, I was amazed to find 
nothing of this good quality pictured upon their 
minds in the reflection ; I was resolved, therefore, 
to communicate my suspicions to a lady whose in- 
tellectual countenance appeared more fair than any 
of the rest, not having above seventy -nine spots in 
all, besides slips and foibles. I owm, young wo- 
man," said I, " that there are some virtues upon 
20 



that mind of yours ; but there is still one which I 
do not see represented, I mean that of rising be- 
times in the morning : I fancy the glass false in 
that particular." The young lady smiled at my 
simplicity ; and with a blush confessed, that she 
and the whole company had been up all night 
gaming. 

By this time all the ladies, except one, had seen 
themselves successively, and disliked the show or 
scolded the showman ; I was resolved, however, 
that she wiio seemed to neglect herself, and was 
neglected by the rest, should take a view ; and 
going up to a corner of the room where she still 
continued sitting, I presented my glass full in her 
face. Here it was that I exulted in my success ; 
no blot, no stain, appeared on any part of the faith- 
ful mirror. As when the large unwritten page 
presents its snowy spotless bosom to the writer's 
hand, so appeared the glass to my view. Here, O 
ye daughters of English ancestors, cried I, turn 
hither, and behold an object worthy imitation ; 
look upon the mirror now, and acknowledge its 
justice, and this woman's pre-eminence ! The la- 
dies, obeying the summons, came up in a group, 
and looking on, acluiowledged there was some 
truth in the picture, as the person now represent- 
ed had been deaf, dumb, and a fool from her 
cradle ! 

This much of my dream I distinctly remember ; 
the rest was filled with chimeras, enchanted cas- 
tles, and flying dragons, as usual. As you, my 
dear Fum Hoam, are particularly versed in the in- 
terpretation of those midnight warnings, what 
pleasure should I find in your explanation ! But 
that our distance prevents : I make no doubt, how- 
ever, but that, from my description, you will very 
much venerate the good qualities of the English 
ladies in general, since dreams, you know, go al- 
ways by contraries. Adieu. 



LETTER XLVII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, toHingpo, a Slave in Persia.* 

Your last letters betray a mind seemingly fond 
of wisdom, yet tempested up by a thousand various 
passions. You would fondly persuade me, that 
my former lessons still influence your conduct, and 
yet your mind seems not less enslaved than your 
body. Knowledge, wisdom, erudition, arts, and 
elegance, what are they but the mere trappings of 
the mind, if they do not serve to increase the hap- 
piness of the possessor ? A mind rightly instituted 
in the school of philosophy, acquires at once the 
stability of the oak, and the flexibility of the osier. 



* This letter appears to be little more than a rhapsody of sen- 
timents from Confucius. Vide the latin translation. 



306 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



The truest manner of lessening our agoniesj is to 
shrink from their pressure ; is to confess that we 
feel them. 

The fortitude of European sages is but a dream; 
for where lies the merit in being insensible to the 
strokes of fortune, or in dissembling our sensibility ? 
If we are insensible, that arises only from a happy 
constitution ; that is a blessing previously granted 
by Heaven, and which no art can procure, no in- 
stitutions improve. 

If we dissemble our feelings, we only artificially 
endeavour to persuade others that we enjoy privi- 
leges which we actually do not possess. Thus, 
while we endeavour to appear happy, we feel at 
once all the pangs of internal misery, and all the 
self-reproaching consciousness of endeavouring to 
deceive. 

I know but of two sects of philosophers in the 
world that have endeavoured to inculcate that for- 
titude is but an imaginary virtue ; I mean the fol- 
lowers of Confucius, and those who profess the 
doctrines of Christ. All other sects teach pride 
under misfortunes ; they alone teach humility. 
Night, says our Chinese philosopher, not more 
surely follows the day, than groans and tears grow 
out of pain ; when misfortunes therefore oppress, 
when tyrants threaten, it is our interest, it is our 
duty to fly even to dissipation for support, to seek 
redress from friendship, or seek redress from the 
best of friends who loved us into being. 

Philosophers, my son, have long declaimed 
against the passions, as being the source of all our 
miseries : they are the source of all our misfortunes, 
I own ; but they are the source of our pleasures 
too ; and every endeavour of our lives, and all the 
institutions of philosophy, should tend to this, not 
to dissemble an absence of passion, but to repel 
those which lead to vice, by those which direct to 
virtue. 

The soul may be compared to a field of battle, 
■where two armies are ready every moment to en- 
counter ; not a single vice but has a more powerful 
opponent, and not one virtue but may be overborne 
by a combination of vices. Reason guides the 
bands of either host ; nor can it subdue one pas- 
sion but by the assistance of another. Thus as a 
bark, on every side beset with storms, enjoys a 
state of rest, so does the mind, when influenced by 
a just equipoise of the passions, enjoy tranquillity. 
I have used such means as ray little fortune 
would admit to procure your freedom. I have 
lately written to the governor of Argun to pay 
your ransom, though at the expense of all the 
wealth I brought with me from China. If we be- 
come poor, we shall at least have the pleasure of 
bearing poverty together; for what is fatigue or 
famine, when weighed against friendship and free- 
dom. Adieu. 



LETTER XL VIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to *"*'*, Merchant in Amsterdam. 

Happening some days ago to call at a painter's, 
to amuse myself in examining some pictures (I 
had no design to buy), it surprised me to see a 
young Prince in the working-room, dressed in a 
painter's apron, and assiduously learning the trade. 
We instantly remembered to have seen each other ; 
and, after the usual compliments, I stood by while 
he continued to paint on. As every thing done 
by the rich is praised ; as Princes here, as well as 
in China, are never without followers, three or four 
persons, who had the appearance of gentlemen, 
were placed behind to comfort and applaud him at 
every stroke. 

Need I tell, that it struck me with very disa- 
greeable sensations, to see a youth, who, by his sta- 
tion in life, had it in his power to be useful to 
thousands, thus letting his mind run to waste upon 
canvass, and at the same time fancying himself 
im-provlng in taste, and filling his rank with pro- 
per decorum. 

As seeing an error, and attempting to redress it, 
are only one and the same with me, I took occa- 
sion, upon his lordship's desiring my opinion of a 
Chinese scroll, intended for the frame of a picture, 
to assure him, that a mandarine of China thought 
a minute acquaintance with such mechanical trifles 
below his dignity. 

This reply raised the indignation of some, and 
the contempt of others : I could hear the names of 
Vandal, Goth, taste, polite arts, delicacy, and fire, 
repeated in tones of ridicule or resentment. But 
considering that it was in vain to argue against 
people who had so much to say without contradict- 
ing them, I begged leave to repeat a fairy tale. 
This request redoubled their laughter; but, not 
easily abashed at the raillery of boys, I persisted, 
observing, that it would set the absurdity of placing 
our affections upon trifles in the strongest point of 
view; and adding, that it was hoped the moral 
would compensate for its stupidity. For Heaven's 
sake, cried the great man, washing his brush in 
water, let us have no morality at present ; if we 
must have a story, let it be without any moral. I 
pretended not to hear ; and, while he handled the 
brush, proceeded as follows : — 

In the kingdom of Bonbobbin, which, by the 
Chinese annals, appears to have flourished twenty 
thousand years ago, there reigned a prince en- 
dowed with every accomplishment which generally 
distinguishes the sons of kings. His beauty was 
brighter than the sun. The sun, to which he was 
nearly related, would sometimes stop his course, in 
order to look down and admire him. 

His mind was not less perfect than his body : he 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



307 



knew all things, without having ever read : phi- 
losophers, poets, and historians, submitted their 
works to his decision ; and so penetrating was he, 
that he could tell the merit of a book, by looking 
on the cover. He made epic poems, tragedies, and 
pastorals, with surprising facility ; song, epigram, 
or rebus, was all one to him, though it was observ- 
ed he could never finish an acrostic. In short, the 
fairy who had presided at his birth endowed him 
with almost every perfection, or what was just the 
same, his subjects were ready to acknowledge he 
possessed them all ; and, for his own part, he knew 
nothing to the contrary. A Prince so accomphsh- 
ed, received a name suitable to his merit ; and 
he was called Bonbennin-bonbc'obin-bonbobbinet, 
which signifies, EnUghtener of the Sun. 

As he was very powerful, and yet unmarried, all 
the neighbouring kings earnestly sought his alli- 
ance. Each sent his daughter, dressed out in the 
most magnificent manner, and with the most 
sumptuous retinue imaginable, in order to allure 
the Prince ; so that at one time there were seen at 
his court not less than seven hundred foreign Prin- 
cesses, of exquisite sentiment and beautj-, each 
alone sufficient to make seven hundred ordinary 
men happy. 

Distracted in such a variety, the generous Bon- 
bennin, had he not been obhged by the laws of the 
empire to make choice of one, would very willingly 
havs married them all, for none understood gal- 
lantry better. He spent numberless hours of soli- 
citude in endeavouring to determine whom he 
should choose ; one lady was possessed of every 
perfection, but he disliked her eyebrows ; another 
was brighter than the morning star, but he disap- 
proved her fong-whang ; a third did not lay white 
enough on her cheek ; and a fourth did not suffi- 
ciently blacken her nails. At last, after number- 
less disappointments on the one side and the other, 
he made choice of the incomparable Nanhoa, 
Clueen of the scarlet dragons. 

The preparations for the royal nuptials, or the 
envy of the disappointed ladies, needs no descrip- 
tion ; both the one and the other were as great as 
they could be: the beautiful Princess was con- 
ducted amidst admiring multitudes to the royal 
couch, where, after being divested of every encum- 
bering ornament, she was placed, in expectance 
of the youthful bridegroom, who did not keep her 
long in expectation. He came more cheerful than 
the morning, and printing on her lips a burning 
kiss, the attendants took this as a proper signal to 
withdraw. 

Perhaps I ought to have mentioned in the be- 
gining, that, among several other qualifications, 
the Prince was fond of collecting and breeding 
mice, which, being a harmless pastime, none of his 
counsellors thought proper to dissuade him from : 
he therefore kept a great variety of these pretty 



little animals in the most beautiful cages enriched 
with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and other 
precious stones : thus he innocently spent four 
hours each day, in contemplating their iimocent 
little pastimes. 

But to proceed. The Prince and Princess were 
now in bed ; one with all the love and expectation, 
the other with all the modesty and fear, which is 
natural to suppose ; both willing, yet afraid to be- 
gin ; when the Prince, happening to look towards 
the outside of the bed, perceived one of the most 
beautiful animals in the world, a white mouse with 
green eyes, playing about the floor, and performing 
a hundred pretty tricks. He was already master 
of blue mice, red mice, and even white mice, with 
yellow eyes ; but a white mouse with green eyes, 
was what he had long endeavoured to possess; 
wherefore, leaping from bed with the utmost im- 
patience and agility, the youthful Prince attempted 
to seize the little charmer, but it was fled in a mo- 
ment ; for, alas ! the mouse was sent by a discon- 
tented Princess, and was itself a fairy. 

It is impossible to describe the agony of the 
Prince upon this occasion ; he sought round and 
round every part of the room, even the bed where 
the Princess lay was not exempt from the inquiry : 
he turned the Princess on one side and the other, 
stripped her quite naked, but no mouse was to be 
found : the Princess herself was kind enough to 
assist, but still to no purpose. 

Alas, cried the young Prince in an agony, how 
unhappy am I to be thus disappointed! never sure 
was so beautiful an animal seen : I would give half 
my kingdom, and my Princess, to him that would 
find it. The Princess, though not much pleased 
with the latter part of his offer, endeavoured to 
comfort him as well as she could : she let him know 
that he had a hundred mice already, which ought 
to be at least sufficient to satisfy any philosopher 
like him. Though none of them had green eyes, 
yet he should learn to thank heaven that they had 
eyes. She told him (for she was a profound mo- 
ralist), that incurable evils must be borne, and that 
useless lamentations were vain, and that man was 
born to misfortunes : she even entreated him to re- 
turn to bed, and she would endeavour to lull him 
on her bosom to repose ; but still the Prince con- 
tinued inconsolable; and regarding her with a 
stern air, for which his family was remarkable, ho 
vowed never to sleep in the royal palace, or in- 
dulge himself in the innocent pleasures of matri- 
mony, till he had found the white mouse with the 
green eyes. 

Prithee, Colonel Leech, cried his lordship, in- 
terrupting me, how do you like that nose ? don't 
you think there is something of the manner of 
Rembrandt in it ? — A prince in all this agony for 
a white mouse, O ridiculous ! — Dont you think. 
Major Vampyre, that eyebrow stippled very pret- 



308 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



tily? — ^but pray, what are the green eyes to the 
purpose, except to amuse children'? I would give 
a thousand guineas to lay on the colouring of this 
cheek more smoothly. But I ask pardon; pray, 
sir, proceed. 

LETTER XLIX. 
From the Same. 

Kings, continued I, at that time were diiferent 
from what they are now; they then never engaged 
their word for any thing which they did not rigor- 
ously intend to perform. This was the case of 
Bonbennin, who continued all night to lament his 
misfortunes to the Princess, who echoed groan for 
groan. When morning came, he published an 
edict, offering half his kingdom, and his Princess, 
to the person who should catch and bring him the 
white mouse with the green eyes. 

The edict was scarcely published, when all the 
traps in the kingdom were baited with cheese; 
numberless mice were taken and destroyed; but 
still the much-wished-for mouse was not among 
the number. The privy-council was assembled 
more than once to give their advice ; but all their 
deliberations came to nothing; even though there 
were two complete vermin-killers, and three pro- 
fessed rat-catchers of the number. Frequent ad- 
dresses, as is usual on extraordinary occasions, 
were sent from all parts of the empire ; but though 
these promised well, though in them he received an 
assurance, that his faithful subjects would assist in 
his search with their lives and fortunes, yet, with 
all their loyalty, they failed when the time came 
that the mouse was to be caught. 

The Prince, therefore, was resolved to go him- 
self in search, determined never to lie two nights 
in one place, till he had found what he sought for. 
Thus, quitting his palace without attendants, he 
set out upon liis journey, and travelled through 
many a desert, and crossed many a river, over high 
hills, and down along vales, still restless, still in- 
quiring wherever he came; but no white mouse 
was to be found. 

As one day, fatigued vfith his journey, he was 
shading himself from the heat of the mid-day sun, 
under the arching branches of a banana tree, medi- 
tating on the object of his pursuit, he perceived an 
old woman, Irideously deformed, approaching him ; 
by her stoop, and the wrinkles of her visage, she 
seemed at least five hundred years old ; and the 
spotted toad was not more freckled than was her 
skin. "Ah! Prince Bonbennin-bonbobbin-bon- 
bobbinet," cried the creature, "what has led you 
eo many thousand miles from your own kingdom 1 
what is it you look for, and v^hat induces you to 
travel into the kingdom of the Emmets? The 
Prince, who was excessively complaisant, told her 



the whole story three times over ; for she was hard 
of hearing. " Well," says the old fairy, for such 
she was, " I promise to put you in possession of 
the white mouse with green eyes, and that imme- 
diately too, upon one condition." " One condi- 
tion," cried the prince in a rapture, " name a thou- 
sand ; I shall undergo them all with pleasure." 
"Nay," interrupted the old fairy, " I ask but one, 
and that not very mortifying neither; it is only 
that you instantly consent to marry me." 

It is im_possible to express the Prince's confusion 
at this demand ; he loved the mouse, but he detest- 
ed the bride ; he hesitated ; he desired time to think 
upon the proposal : he would have been glad to 
consult his friends on such an occasion. " Nay, 
nay," cried the odious fairy, "if you demur, I re- 
tract my promise ; I do not desire to force my fa- 
vours on any man. Here, you my attendants," 
cried she, stamping with her foot, "let my ma- 
chine be driven up ; Barbacela, Q,ueen of Emmets, 
is not used to contemptuous treatment." She had 
no sooner spoken, than her fiery chariot appeared 
in the air, drawn by two snails ; and she was just 
going to step in, when the Prince reflected, that 
now or never was the time to be possessed of the 
white mouse ; and quite forgetting his lawful Prin- 
cess Nanhoa, falling on his knees, he implored 
forgiveness for having rashly rejected so much 
beauty. This well-timed compliment instantly ap- 
peased the angry fairy. She affected a hideous 
leer of approbation, and taking the young Prince 
by the hand, conducted him to a neighbouring 
church, where they were married together in a 
moment. As soon as the ceremony was perform- 
ed, the prince, who was to the last degree desirous 
of seeing his favourite mouse, reminded the bride 
of her promise. " To confess a truth, my Prince," 
cried she, " I myself am that very white mouse 
you saw on your wedding-night in the royal apart- 
ment. I now, therefore, give you the choice, whe- 
ther you would have me a mouse by day, and a 
woman by night, or a mouse by night, and a wo- 
man by day." Though the Prince was an excel- 
lent casuist, he was quite at a loss how to deter- 
mme, but at last thought it most prudent to have 
recourse to a blue cat that had followed him from 
his own dominions, and frequently amused him 
with its conversation, and assisted him with its ad- 
vice; in fact, this cat was no other than the faith- 
ful Princess Nanhoa herself, who had shared with 
him all his hardships in this disguise. 

By her instructions he was determined in his 
choice, and returning to the old fairy, prudently 
observed, that as she must have been sensible he 
had married her only for the sake of what she had, 
and not for her personal qualifications, he thought 
it would for several reasons be most convenient, if 
she continued a woman by day and appeared a 
mouse by night. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



309 



The old fairy was a good deal mortified at her 
husband's want of gallantry, though she was re- 
luctantly obliged to comply : the day was therefore 
spent in the most polite amusements, the gentleman 
talked smut, the ladies laughed, and were angry. 
At last, the happy night drew near, the blue cat 
still stuck by the side of its master, and even fol- 
lowed him to tiie bridal apartment. Barbacela en- 
tered the chamber, wearing a train fifteen 3'ards 
long, supported bj"^ porcupines, and all over beset 
with jewels, which served to render her more de- 
testable. She was just stepping into bed to the 
Prince, forgetting her promise, when he insisted 
upon seeing her in the shape of a mouse. She 
had promised, and no fairy can break her word ; 
wherefore, assuming the figure of the most beau- 
tiful mouse in the world, she skipped and played 
about with an infinity of amusement. The Prince, 
in an agonjr of rapture, was desirous of seeing his 
pretty play-fellow move a slow dance about the 
floor to his own singing; he began to sing, and the 
mouse immediately to perform with the most per- 
fect knowledge of time, and the finest grace and 
greatest gravity imaginable ; it only began, for Nan- 
hoa, who had long waited for the opportunity in 
the shape of a cat, flew upon it instantly without 
remorse, and eating it up in the hundredth part of 
a moment, broke the charm, and then resumed her 
natural figure. 

The Prince now found that he had all along been 
under the power of enchantment, that his passion 
for the white mouse was entirely fictitious, and not 
the genuine complexion of his soul ; he now saw 
that his earnestness after mice was an illiberal 
amusement, and much more becoming a rat-catcher 
than a Prince. All his meannesses now stared 
him in the face; he begged the discreet Princess's 
pardon a hundred times. The Princess very rea- 
dily forgave him ; and both returning to their pa- 
lace in Bonbobbin, lived very happily together, and 
reigned many years with all that wisdom, which, 
by the story, they appear to have been possessed 
of; perfectly convinced, by their former adventures, 
that thei/ who place their affections on trifles at 
first for amusement, will find those trifles at last 
become their most serious concern. Adieu. 



LETTER L. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pel^in, in Cliina. 

Ask an Englishman what nation in the world 
enjoys most freedom, and he immediately answers, 
his own. Ask him in what that freedom princi- 
pally consists, and he is instantly silent. This 
happy pre-eminence does not arise from the peo- 
ple's enjoying a larger share in legislation than 



elsewhere; for, in this particular, several states in 
Europe excel them ; nor does it arise from a greater 
exemption from taxes, for few countries pay more ; 
it does not proceed from their being restrained by 
fewer laws, for no people are burdened with so 
many; nor does it particularly consist in the se- 
curity of their property, for property is pretty well 
secured in every polite state in Europe. 

How then are the English more free (for more 
ree they certainly are) than the people of any 
other country, or under any other form of govern- 
ment whatever? Their freedom consists in their 
enjoying all the advantages of democracy, with 
this superior prerogative borrowed from monarchy, 
that the severity of their laws may he relaxed 
without endangering the constitution. 

In a monarchical state, in which the constitution 
is strongest, the laws may be relaxed without dan- 
ger; for though the people should be unanimous in 
the breach of any one in particular, 5'et still there 
is an effective power superior to the people, capable 
of enforcing obedience, whenever it may be proper 
to inculcate the law either towards the support or 
welfare of the communit}'. 

But in all those governments where laws derive 
their sanction from the people alone, transgressions 
can not be overlooked without bringing the consti- 
tution into danger. They who transgress the law 
in such a case, are those who prescribe it, by which 
means it loses not only its influence but its sanc- 
tion. In every republic the laws must be strong, 
because the constitution is feeble ; they must resem- 
ble an Asiatic husband, who is justly jealous, he- 
cause he knows himself impotent. Thus in Hol- 
land, Switzerland, and Genoa, new laws are not 
frequently enacted, but the old ones are observed 
with unremitting severity. In such republics, there- 
fore, the people are slaves to laws of their own 
making, little less than in unmixed monarchies, 
where they are slaves to the will of one, subject to 
frailties like themselves. 

In England, from a variety of happy accidents, 
their constitution is just strong enough, or, if you 
will, monarchical enough to permit a relaxation of 
the severity of laws, and yet those laws still to re- 
main sufficiently strong to govern the people. This 
is the most perfect state of civil liberty of which we 
can form any idea : here we see a greater number 
of laws than in any other country, while the people 
at the same time obey only such as are immedi- 
ately conducive to the interests of society; several 
are unnoticed, many unknown; some kept to be 
revived and enforced upon proper occasions, others 
left to grow obsolete, even without the necessity 
of abrogation. 

There is scarcely an Englishman who does not 
almost every day of his life offend with impunity 
against some express law, and for which, in a cer- 
tain conjuncture of circumstances, he would not 



810 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



receive punishment. Gaming-houses, preaching 
at prohibited places, assembled crowds, nocturnal 
amusements, public shows, and a hundred other 
instances, are forbid and frequented. These pro- 
hibitions are useful; though it be prudent in their 
magistrates, and happy for the people, that they 
are not enforced, and none but the venal or merce- 
nary attempt to enforce them. 

The law in this case, like an indulgent parent, 
still keeps the rod, though the child is seldom cor- 
rected. Were those pardoned offences to rise into 
enormity, were they Ukely to obstruct the happiness 
of society, or endanger the state, it is then that jus- 
tice would resume her terroi'J, and punish those 
faults she had so often overlooked with indulgence. 
It is to this ductility of the laws that an English- 
man owes the freedom he enjoys superior to others 
in a more popular government : every step there- 
fore the constitution takes towards a democratic 
form, every diminution of the legal authority is, in 
fact, a diminution of the subject's freedom; but 
every attempt to render the government more popu- 
lar, not only impairs natural liberty, but even will 
at last dissolve the political constitution. 

Every popular government seems calculated to 
kst only for a time; it grows rigid with age, new 
.'aws are multiplying, and the old continue in force; 
the subjects are oppressed, and burdened with a 
multiplicity of legal injunctions; there are none 
from whom to expect redress, and nothing but a 
strong convulsion in the state can vindicate them 
into former liberty: thus, the people of Rome, a 
few great ones excepted, found more real freedom 
under their emperors, though tyrants, than they 
had experienced in the old age of the common- 
wealth, in which their laws were become numerous 
and painful, in which new laws were every day 
enacting, and the old ones executed with rigour. 
They even refused to be reinstated in their former 
prerogatives, upon an offer made them to this pur- 
pose; for they actually found emperors the only 
means of softening the rigours of their constitu- 
tion. 

The constitution of England is at present pos- 
sessed of the strength of its native oak, and the 
flexibility of the bending tamarisk ; but should the 
people at any time, with a mistaken zeal, pant after 
an imaginary freedom, and fancy that abridging 
monarchy was increasing their privileges, they 
would be very much mistaken, since every jewel 
plucked from the crown of majesty would only be 
made use of as a bribe to corruption ; it might en- 
rich the few who shared it among them, but would 
in fact impoverish the public. 

As the Roman senators, by slow and impercepti- 
ble degrees, became masters of the people, yet still 
fb,ttered them with a show of freedom, while them- 
selves only were free ; so it is possible for a body 
of Hjea, while they stand up for privileges, to grow 



into an exuberance of power themselves, and the 
public become actually dependent, while some of its 
individuals only governed. 

If then, my friend, there should in this country 
ever be on the throne a king, who, through good- 
nature or age, should give up the smallest part of 
his prerogative to the people ; if there should come 
a minister of merit and popularity — but I have 
room for no more. Adieu. 



LETTER LI. 



To the Same. 



As I was yesterday seated at breakfast over a 
pensive dish of tea, my meditations were interrupt- 
ed by m}' old friend and companion, who introduced 
a stranger, dressed pretty much like himself The 
gentleman made several apologies for his visit, beg- 
ged of me to impute his intrusicm to the sincerity 
of his respect, and the warmth of his curiosity. 

As I am very suspicious of my company when 
I find them very civil without any apparent reason, 
I answered the stranger's caresses at first with re- 
serve ; which my friend perceiving, instantly let me 
into my visitant's trade and character, asking Mr. 
Fudge, whether he had lately published any thing 
new? I now conjectured that my guest was no 
other than a bookseller, and his answer confirmed 
my suspicions. 

" Excuse me, sir," says he, " it is not the season ; 
books have their time as well as cucumbers. I 
would no more bring out a new work in summer 
than I would sell pork in the dog-days. Nothing 
in my way goes off in summer, except very light 
goods indeed. A review, a magazine, or a sessions 
paper, may amuse a summer reader; but all our stock 
of value we reserve for a spring and winter trade." 
I viv^t confess, sir, says I, a curiosity to know what 
you call a valuable stock, which can only bear a 
winter -perusal. " Sir," replied the bookseller, "it 
is not my way to cry up my own goods ; but, with- 
out exaggeration, I will venture to show with any 
of the trade; my books at least have the peculiar 
advantage of being always new; and it is my way 
to clear off my old to the trunk-makers every sea- 
son. I have ten new title-pages now about me, 
which only want books to be added to malie them 
the finest things in nature. Others may pretend 
to direct the vulgar; but that is not my way; I al- 
was let the vulgar direct me; wherever popular 
clamour arises, 1 always echo the million. For 
instance, should the people in general say, that 
such a man is a rogue, I instantly give orders to set 
him down in print a villain ; thus every man buys 
the hook, not to learn new sentiments, but to have 
the pleasure of seeing his own reflected." But, sir, 
interrupted I, you speak as if you yourself wrote 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



311 



tlie books you published ; may Ibe so bold as to ask 
asight of some of those intended publications which 
are shortly to surprise the world? " As to that, 
sir," replied the talkative bookseller, " I only draw 
out the plans myself; and, though I am very cau- 
tious of communicating them to any, yet, as in the 
end I have a favour to ask, you shall see a few of 
them. Here, sir, here they are ; diamonds of the first 
water, I assure you. Imprimis, a translation of 
several medical precepts for the use of such physi- 
cians as do not understand Latin. Item, the young 
clergyman's art of placing patches regularly, with 
a dissertation on the different manners of smiling 
■without distorting the face. Item, the whole art 
of love made perfectly easy, by a broker of 'Change 
Alley. Item, the proper manner of cutting black- 
lead pencils, and making crayons; by the Right Hon. 
the Earl of ***. Item, the muster-master-general, 
or the review of reviews — " Sir, cried 1, inter- 
rupting him, my curiosity with regard to title- 
pages is satisfied; I should he glad to see some 
longer manuscript, a history or an epic poem. 
" Bless me," cries the man of industry, " now you 
speak of an epic poem, you shall see an excellent 
farce. Here it is ; dip into it where you will, it 
will be found replete with true modern humour. 
Strokes, sir ; it is filled with strokes of wit and 
satire in every line." Do you call these dashes 
of the pen, strokes, repUed I, for I must confess I 
can see no other? "And pray, sir," returned he, 
" what do you call theml Do you see any thing 
good now-a-days, that is not filled with strokes — 

and dashes? Sir, a well-placed dash makes half 

the wit of our writers of modern humour. I bought 
a piece last season that had no other merit upon 
earth than nine hundred and ninety-five breaks, 
seventy-two ha ha's, three good things, and a gar- 
ter. And yet it played off, and bounced, and 
cracked, and made more sport than a fire-work." 
I fancy, then, sir, you were a considerable gainer? 
"It must be owned the piece did pay; but upon 
the whole, I can not much boast of last winter's 
success : I gained by two murders; but then I lost 
by an ill-timed charity sermon. I was a considera- 
ble sufferer by mj' Direct Road at an Estate, but 
the Infernal Guide brought me up again. Ah, sir, 
that was a piece touched off by the hand of a mas- 
ter ; filled with good things from one end to the 
other. The author had nothing but the jest in 
view; no dull moral lurking beneath, nor ill-natur- 
ed satire to sour the reader's good-humour; he 
wisely considered, that moral and humour at the 
same time were quite overdoing the business." To 
what purpose was the book then published? " Sir, 
the book was published in order to be sold ; and 
no book sold better, except the criticisms upon it, 
which came out soon after; of all kind of writings 
that goes off best at present; and I generally fasten 
1 criticism upon every selling book that is published. 



" I once had an author who never left the least 
opening for the critics ! close was the word, always 
very right, and very dull, ever on the safe side of an 
argument; yet with all his qualifications incapable 
of coming into favour. I soon perceived that his 
bent was for criticism ; and, as he was good for no- 
thing else, supplied him with pens and paper, and 
planted him at the beginning of every month as a 
censor on the works of others. In short, 1 found him 
a treasure; no merit could escape him : but v^'hat is 
most remarkable of all, he ever wrote best and bit- 
terest when drunk." But are there not some 
works, interrupted I, that from, the very manner 
of their composition, must be exempt from criti- 
cism; particularly such as profess to disregard 
its laws? '■' There is no work whatsoever but what 
he can criticise," replied the bookseller; "even 
though you wrote in Chinese he would have a pluck 
at you. Suppose you should take it into your head 
to publish a book, let it be a volume of Chinese let- 
ters, for instance: write how you will, he shall 
show the world you could have written better. 
Should you, with the most local exactness, stick to 
the manners and customs of the country from 
whence you come ; should you confine yourself to 
the narrow limits of Eastern knowledge, and be 
perfectly simple, and perfectly natural, he has then 
the strongest reason to exclaim. He may with a 
sneer send you back to China for readers. He may , 
observe, that after the first or second letter, the 
iteration of the same simplicity is insupportably te- 
dious; but the worst of all is, the public in such a 
case will anticipate his censures, and leave you, 
with all your uninstructive simplicity, to be mauled 
at discretion." 

Yes, cried I, but in order to avoid his indig- 
nation, and what 1 should fear more, that of the 
public, I would, in such a case, write with all the 
knowledge I was master of. As lam not possessed 
of much learning, at least I would not suppress 
what little I had; nor would I appear more stupid 
than nature has made me. " Here then," cries 
the bookseller, "we should have you entirely 
in our power : unnatural, uneastern ; quite out of 
character ; erroneously sensible would be the whole 
cry ; sir, we should then hunt you down like a rat." 
Head of my father! said I, sure there are but two 
ways; the door must either be shut, or it m,ust be 
open. I must be either natural or unnatural. 
"Be what you will, we shall criticise you," return- 
ed the bookseller, " and prove you a dunce in spite 
of your teeth. But, sir, it is time that I should 
come to business. I have just now in the press a his- 
tory of China ; and if you will but put your name to 
it as the author, I shall repay the obligation with 
gratitude." What, sir, replied I, put my name to 
a work which I have not written! Never, while I 
retain, a proper respect for the public and myself. 
The bluntness of my reply quite abated the ardow 



312 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



of the bookseller's conversation ; and after about 
half an hour's disagreeable reserve, he with some 
ceremoriy, took his leave, and withdrew^. Adieu. 



LETTER LIL 



To the Same. 



In all other countries, my dear Fum Hoam, the 
rich are distinguished by their dress. In Persia, 
China, and most parts of Europe, those who are 
possessed of much gold or silver, put some of it 
upon their clothes; but in England, those who 
carry much upon their clothcr, are remarked for 
having but little in their pockets. A tawdry out- 
side is regarded as a badge of poverty ; and those 
who can sit at home, and gloat over their thousands 
in silent satisfaction, are generally found to do it in 
plain clothes. 

This diversity of tliinkingfrom the rest of the 
world which prevails here, I was at first at a loss 
to account for ; but am since informed, that it was 
introduced by an intercourse between them and 
their neighbours the French ; who, whenever they 
came in order to pay these islanders a visit, were 
generally very well dressed, and very poor, daubed 
■with lace, but all the gilding on the outside. By 
this means, laced clothes have been brought so 
much into contempt, that at present even their 
mandarines are ashamed of finery. 

I must own myself a convert to English sim- 
plicity; I am no more for ostentation of wealth 
than of learning: the person who in company 
should pretend to be wiser than others, 1 am apt 
to regard as illiterate and ill-bred ; the person whose 
clothes are extremely fine, I am too apt to consider 
as not being possessed of any superiority of fortune, 
hut resembling those Indians who are found to 
wear all the gold they have in the world, in a bob 
at the nose. 

I was lately introduced into a company of the 
best dressed men I have seen since my arrival 
Upon entering the room, I was struck with av/e at 
the grandeur of the different dresses. That per 
sonage, thought I, in blue and gold, must be some 
emperor's son ; that in green and silver, a prince 
of the blood : he in embroidered scarlet, a prime 
minister; all first-rate noblemen, I suppose, and 
well-looking noblemen too. I sat for some time 
•with that uneasiness which conscious inferiority 
produces in the ingenuous mind, all attention to 
their discourse. However, I found their conversa- 
tion more vulgar than I could have expected from 
personages of such distinction : if these, thought I 
to myself, be princes, they, are the most stupid 
princes I have ever conversed with : yet still I con- 
tinued to venerate their dress; for dress has a kind 
of mechanical influence on the mind. 



My friend in black, indeed, did not behave with 
the same deference, but contradicted the finest of 
them all in the most peremptory tones of contempt. 
But I had scarcely time to wonder at the impru- 
dence of his conduct, when I found occasion to be 
equally surprised at the absurdity of theirs ; for, 
upon the entry of a middle-aged man, dressed in a 
cap, dirty shirt, and boots, the whole circle seemed 
diminished of their former importance, and con- 
tended who should be first to pay their obeisance 
to the stranger. They somewhat resembled a 
circle of Kalmucs offering incense to a bear. 

Eager to know the cause of so much seeming 
contradiction, I whispered my friend out of the 
room, and found that the august company consist- 
ed of no other than a dancing-master, two fiddlers, 
and a third-rate actor, all assembled in order to 
make a set at country-dances; and the middle-aged 
gentleman whom I saw enter was a 'squire from 
the country, and desirous of learning the new man- 
ner of footing, and smoothing up the rudiments of 
his rural minuet. 

I was no longer surprised at the authority which 
my friend assumed among them, nay, was even 
displeased (pardon my Eastern education) that he 
had not kicked every creature of them down stairs. 
"What," said I, "shall a set of such paltry fellows 
dress themselves up like sons of kings, and claim 
even the transitory respect of half an hour ! There 
should be some law to restrain so manifest a breach 
of privilege ; they should go from house to house, 
as in China, with the instruments of their pro- 
fession strung round their necks ; by this means 
we might be able to distinguish and treat them in a 
style of becoming contempt." Hold, my friend, 
replied my companion, were your reformation to 
take place, as dancing-masters and fiddlers now 
mimic gentlemen in appearance, we should then 
find our fine gentlemen conforming to theirs. A 
beau might be introduced to a lady of fashion, with 
a fiddle-case hanging at his neck by a red riband ; 
and instead of a cane, might carry a fiddle-stick. 
Though to be as dull as a first-rate dancing-master, 
might be used with proverbial justice; yet, dull as 
he is, many a fine gentleman sets him up as the 
proper standard of politeness ; copies not only the 
pert vivacity of his air, but the fiat insipidity of his 
conversation. In short, if you make a law against 
dancing-masters imitating the fine gentleman, you 
should with as much reason enact, that no fine 
gentleman shall imitate the dancing-master. 

After I had left my friend, I made towards home, 
reflecting as I went upon the dilficulty of distin- 
guishing men by their appearance. Invited, how- 
ever, by the freshness of the evening, I did not re- 
turn directly, but went to ruminate on what had 
passed in a public garden belonging to the city. 
Here, as I sat upon one of the benches, and felt 
the pleasing sympathy which nature in bloom in- 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



313 



spires, a disconsolate figure, who sat on the other 
end of the seat, seemed no way to enjoy the sereni- 
ty of the season. 

His dress was miserable beyond description : a 
threadbare coat of the rudest materials; a shirt, 
though clean, yet extremely coarse; hair that 
seemed to have been long unconscious of the comb ; 
and all the rest of his equipage impressed with the 
marks of genuine poverty. 

As he continued to sigh, and testify every symp- 
tom of despair, I was naturally led, from a motive 
of humanity, to offer comfort and assistance. You 
know my heart ; and that all who are miserable 
may claim a place there. The pensive stranger 
at first declined my conversation ; but at last, per- 
ceiving a peculiarity in my accent and manner of 
thinking, he began to unfold himself Ijy degrees. 

I now fiiund that he was not so very miserable 
as he at first appeared ; upon my offering him a 
small piece of money, he refused my favour, yet 
without appearing displeased at mj^ intended gener- 
osity. It is true, he sometimes interrupted the 
conversation with a sigh, and talked pathetically of 
neglected merit ; yet still I could perceive a serenity 
in his countenance, that, upon a closer inspection, 
bespoke inward content. 

Upon a pause in the conversation, I was going 
to take my leave, wiien he begged I would favour 
him with my company home to supper. I was 
surprised at such a demand from a person of his 
appearance, but willing to indulge curiosity, I ac- 
cepted his invitation ; and, though I felt some re- 
pugnance at being seen with one who appeared so 
very wretched, went along with seeming alacrity. 

StUl as he approached nearer home, his good hu- 
mour propoj"tionably seemed to increase. At last 
he stopped, not at the gate of a hovel, but of a mag- 
nificent palace! When I cast my e5'es upon all the 
sumptuous elegance which every where presented 
upon entering, and then when I looked at my seem- 
ing miserable conductor, I could scarcely think that 
all this finery belonged to him ; yet in fact it did. 
Numerous servants ran through the apartments 
■with silent assiduity ; several ladies of beauty, and 
magnificently dressed, came to welcome his return ; 
a most elegant supper was provided : in short, I 
found the person whom a little before I had sin- 
cerely pitied, to be in reality a most refined epicure, 
— one who courted contempt abroad, in order to 
feel with keener gust the pleasure oj" pre-eminence 
at home. Adieu. 



LETTER LIII. 

From the Same. 

How often have we admired the eloquence of 
Europe ! that strength of thinking, that delicacy of 



imagination, even beyond the efforts of the Chinese 
themselves. How were we enraptured with those 
bold figures which sent every sentiment with force 
to the heart. How have we spent whole days to- 
gether, in learning those arts by which European 
writers got within the passions, and led the reader 
as if by enchantment. 

But though we have learned most of the rhetori- 
cal figures of the last age, yet there seems to be one 
or two of great use here, which have not yet travel- 
led to China. The figures I mean are called 
Bawdry and Pertness: none are more fashionable; 
none so sure of admirers ; they are of such a na- 
ture, that the merest blockhead, by a proper use of 
them, shall have the reputation of a wit ; they lie 
level to the meanest capacities, and address those 
passions which all have, or would be ashamed to 
disown. 

It has been observed, and I believe with some truth, 
that it is very difficult for a dunce to obtain the re- 
putation of a wit ; yet, by the assistance of the 
figure Bawdry, this may be easily effected, and a 
bawdy blockhead often passes for a fellow of smart 
parts and pretensions. Every object in nature 
helps the jokes forward, without scarcely any effort 
of the imagination. If a lady stands, something 
very good may be said upon that ; if she happens 
to fall, with the help of a little fashionable prurien- 
cy, there are forty sly things ready on the occa- 
sion. But a prurient jest has always been found 
to give most pleasure to a few very old gentlemen, 
who, being in some measure dead to other sensa- 
tions, feel the force of the allusion with double 
violence on the organs of risibility. 

An author who writes in this manner is general- 
ly sure therefore of having the very old and the 
impotent among his admirers; for these he may 
properly be said to write, and from these he ought 
to expect his reward ; his works being often a very 
proper succedaneum to cantharides, or an asafoeti- 
da pill. His pen should be considered in the same 
light as the squirt of an apothecary, both being 
directed to the same generous end. 

But though this manner of writing be perfectly 
adapted to the taste of gentlemen and ladies of 
fashion here, yet still it deserves greater praise in 
being equally suited to the most vulgar apprehen- 
sions. The very ladies and gentlemen of Benin 
or Caffraria are in this respect tolerably polite, and 
might relish a prurient joke of this kind with criti- 
cal propriety ; probably too with higher gust, as 
they wear neither breeches nor petticoats to inter- 
cept the application. 

It is certain I never could have thought the la- 
dies here, biassed as they are by education, capable 
at once of bravely throwing off their prejudices, 
and not only applauding books in which this figure 
makes the only merit, but even adopting it in their 
own conversation. Yet so it is : the pretty inno- 



314 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



cents now carry those books openly in their hands, 
which formerly were hid under the cushion : they 
now lisp their double meanings with so much grace, 
and talk over the raptures they bestow with such 
little reserve, that 1 am sometimes reminded of a 
custom among the entertainers in China, whothink 
it a piece of necessary breeding to whet the appe- 
tites of their guests, by letting them smell dinner 
in the kitchen, before it is served up to table. 

The veneration we have for many things, en- 
tirely proceeds from their being carefully concealed. 
"Were the idolatrous Tartar permitted to lift the 
veil which keeps his idol from view, it might be a 
certain method to cure his future superstition: with 
what a noble spirit of freedom, therefore, must that 
writer be possessed, who bravely paints things as 
they are, who lifts the veil of modesty, who dis- 
plays the most hidden recesses of the temple, and 
shows the erring people that the object of their vows 
is either, perhaps, a mouse or a monkey ! 

However, though this figure be at present so 
much in fashion; though the professors of it are so 
much caressed by the great, those perfect judges 
of literary excellence ; yet it is confessed to be only 
a revival of what was once fashionable here before. 
There was a time, when by this very manner of 
writing, the gentle Tom Durfey, as I read in En- 
glish authors, acquired his great reputation, and 
became the favourite of a king. 

The works of this original genius, though they 
never travelled abroad to China, and scarcely have 
reached posterity at home, were once found upon 
every fashionable toilet, and made the subject of 
polite, I mean very polite conversation. " Has your 
grace seen Mr. Durfeifs last neio thing, the Oylet 
Hole 7 A most facetious piece ! — Sure, my lord, 
all the world must have seen it ; Durfey is cer- 
tainly the most comical creature alive. It is im- 
possible to read his things and live. Was there 
ever any thing so natural and pretty, as when the 
'Squire and Bridget meet in the cellar? And 
then the difficulties they both find in broaching 
the beer-barrel are so arch and so ingenious : We 
have certainly nothing of this kind in the lan- 
guage.'" In this manner they spoke then, and in 
this manner they speak now; for though the suc- 
cessor of Durfey does not excel him in wit, the 
world must confess he outdoes him in obscenity. 

There are several very dull fellows, who, by a 
few mechanical helps, sometimes learn to become 
extremely brilliant and pleasing, with a little dex- 
terity in the management of the eyebrows, fingers, 
and nose. By imitating a cat ; a sow and pigs; by 
a loud laugh, and a slap on the shoulder, the most 
ignorant are furnished out for conversation. But 
the writer finds it impossible to throw his winks, 
his shrugs, or his attitudes, upon paper; he may 
borrow some assistance, indeed, by printing his face 
at the title-page; but without wit, to pass for a man 



of ingenuity, no other mechanical help but down- 
right obscenity will suffice. By speaking of some 
peculiar sensations, we are always sure of exciting 
laughter, for the jest does not lie in the writer, but 
in the subject. 

But Bawdry is often helped on by another figure, 
called Pertness; and few indeed are found to excel 
in one that are not possessed of the other. 

As in common conversation, the best way to 
make the audience laugh is by first laughing vour- 
self ; so in writing, the properest manner is to show 
an attemjit at humour, which will pass upon most 
for humour in reality. To effect this, readers must 
be treated with the most perfect familiarity : in one 
page the author is to make them a low bow, and 
in the next to pull them by the nose; he must talk 
in riddles, and then send them to bed in order to 
dream for the solution. He must speak of himself, 
and his chapters, and his manner, and what he 
would be at, and his own importance, and his mo- 
ther's importance, with the most unpitying prolixi- 
ty; and now and then testifying his contempt for 
all but himself, smiling without a jest, and without 
wit professing vivacity. Adieu. 



LETTER LIV. 



From the Same. 



Thocjgh naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay 
company, and take every opportunity of thus dis- 
missing the mind from duty. From this motive, 
I am often found in the centre of a crowd ; and 
wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a pur- 
chaser. In those places, without being remarked 
by any, I join in whatever goes forward ; work my 
passions into a similitude of frivolous earnestness, 
shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen 
to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while be- 
low its natural standard, is qualified for stronger 
flights, as those first retire who would spring for- 
ward with greater vigour. 

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my 
friend and I lately went to gaze upon the company 
in one of the public walks near the city. Here we 
sauntered together for some time, either praising 
the beauty of such as were handsome, or the 
dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend 
them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for 
some time, when stopping on a sudden, my friend 
caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the 
public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of 
his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that 
he was attempting to avoid somebody who followed: 
we now turned to the right, then to the left ; as we 
went forvpard he still went faster, but in vain ; the 
person whom he attempted to escape hunted us 
through every doubling, and gained upon us each 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



315 



moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, re- 
solving to face what we could not avoid. 

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with 
all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. " My 
dear Drybone," cries he, shaking my friend's hand, 
" where have you been hiding this half a century ? 
Positively I had fiincied you were gone to cultivate 
matrimony and your estate in the country." Dur- 
ing the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the 
appearance of our nevsr companion : his hat was 
pinched up with peculiar smartness ; his looks were 
pale, thin, and sharp ; round his neck he wore a 
broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle stud- 
ded with glass ; his coat was trimmed with tarnished 
twist ; he wore by his side a sword with a black 
hilt: and his stockings of silk, though newly washed. 
Were grown yellow by long service. I was so much 
engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I at- 
tended only to the latter part of my friend's reply, 
in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste 
of his clothes, and the bloom in his countenance : 
" Pshavvf, pshaw. Will," cried the figure, " no more 
of that if you love me : you know I hate flattery, on 
my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with 
the great will improve one's appearance, and a 
course of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I de- 
spise the great as much as you do : but there are a 
great many damn'd honest fellows among them ; 
and we must not quarrel with one half, because 
the other wants weeding. If they were all such as 
my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured 
creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should my- 
self be among the number of their admirers. I was 
yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's. 
My lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned, 
says he, I'll hold gold to silver 1 can tell where you 
were poaching last night. Poaching, my lord, says 
I ; faith you have missed already ; for I staid at 
home, and let the girls poach for me. That's my 
waj' ; I take a fine woman, as some animals do 
their prey — stand still, and, swoop, they fall into 
my mouth." 

" Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow," cried my 
companion, with looks of infinite pity; "I hope 
your fortune is as much improved as your under- 
standing in such company?" "Improved," re- 
plied the other; "you shall know, — but let it go 
no farther, — a great secret — five hundred a-year to 
begin with. — My lord's word of honour for it — 
his lordship took me down in his own chariot yes- 
terday, and we had a tete-a-tete dinner in the coun- 
try, where we talked of nothing else." "I fancy 
you forget, sir," cried I, "you told us but this mo- 
ment of your dining yesterday in town." " Did I 
say sol" replied he, coolly; "to be sure, if I said 
so, it was so — dined in town ; egad, now I do re- 
member, I did dine in town ; but I dined in the 
country too; for you must know, my boys, I eat 
two dinners. By the by, I am grown as nice as 



the devil in my eating. I'll tell you a pleasant af- 
fair about that : we were a select party of us to 
dine at Lady Grogram's, an aflfected piece, but let 
it go no farther; a secret: well, there happened to 
be no asafcEtida in the sauce to a turkey, upon 
which, says 1, I'll hold a thousand guineas, and say 
done first, that — but dear Drybone, you are an hon- 
est creature, lend me half-a-crown for a minute or 

two, or so, just till but hearkee, ask me for it 

the next time wc meet, or it may be twenty to one 
but 1 forget to pay you." 

When he left us, our conversation naturally 
turned upon so extraordinary a character. His 
very dress, cries my friend, is not less extraordinary 
than his conduct. If you meet him this day you 
find him in rags, if the next, in embroidery. With 
those persons of distinction of whom he talks so 
famiharly, he has scarcely a coflTee-house acquaint- 
ance. However, both for the interests of society, 
and perhaps for his own. Heaven has made him 
poor, and while all the world perceive his wants, 
he fancies them concealed from every eye. An 
agreeable companion, because he understands flat- 
tery ; and all must be pleased with the first part of 
his conversation, though all are sure of its ending 
with a demand on their purse. While his youth 
countenances the levity of his conduct, he may 
thus earn a precarious subsistence, but when age 
comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible 
with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken 
by all; condemned in the decline of life to hang 
upon some rich family whom he once despised, 
there to undergo all the ingenuity of studied con- 
tempt, to be employed only as a spy upon the ser- 
vants, or a bugbear to fright the children into obe* 
dience. Adieu. 



CHAPTER LV. 



To the Same. 



I AM apt to fancy I have contracted a new ac- 
quaintance whom it will be no easy matter to shake 
off. My little beau yesterday overtook me again 
in one of the public walks, and slapping me on the 
shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most per- 
fect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, 
except that he had more powder in his hair, wore 
a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his 
hat under his arm. 

As I knew him to be a harmless amusing little 
thing, I could not return his smiles with any de- 
gree of severity; so we walked forward on terms 
of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes dis- 
cussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular 
conversation. 

The oddities that marked his character, how- 
ever, soon began to appear ; he bowed to several 



316 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of re- 
turning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. 
At intervals he drew out a pocket book, seeming 
to take memorandums before all the company, with 
much importance and assiduity. In this manner 
he led me through the length of the whole walk, 
fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself 
laughed at not less than him by every spectator. 

When we had got to the end of our procession, 
"Blast me," cries he, with an air of vivacity, " I 
never saw the park so thin in my life before ! there's 
no company at all to-day ; not a single face to be 
seen." "No company!" interrupted I, peevishly; 
" no company where there is such a crowd? why 
man, there's too much. What are the thousands 
that have been laughing at us but company?'' 
"Lord, my dear," returned he, with the utmost 
good humour, "you seem immensely chagrirjied; 
but blast me, when the world laughs at me, I 
laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord 
Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, sometimes 
make a party at being ridiculous ; and so we say 
and do a thousand things for the joke's sake. But 
I see you are grave, and if you are for a fine grave 
sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and 
my wife to-day: I must insist on't: I'll introduce 
you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifica- 
tions as any in nature ; she was bred, but that's 
"between ourselves, under the inspection of the 
Countess of All-night. A charming body of voice ; 
but no more of that, she will give us a song. You 
shall see my little girl too, Carolina Wilhelmina 
Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature ! I design 
her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son ; but that's 
in friendship, let it go no farther : she's but six 
years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on 
the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall 
be as perfect as possible in every accomplishment. 
In the first place, I'll make her a scholar; I'll teach 
her Greek myself, and learn that language pur- 
posely to instruct her; but let that be a secret." 

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he 
took me by the arm, and hauled me along. We 
passed through many dark alleys and winding 
■ways ; for, from some motives to me unknown, he 
seemed to have a particular aversion to every fre- 
quented street ; at last, however, we got to the door 
of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, 
where he informed me he chose to reside for the 
benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which ever seemed 
to lie most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend 
an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mount- 
ed to show me the way, he demanded, whether I 
delighted in prospects ; to which answering in the 
affirmative, " Then," says he, " I shall show you 
one of the most charming in the world out of my 
window; we shall see the ships sailing, and the 
whole country for twenty miles round, tip top, 



quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten 
thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I some- 
times pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my 
prospects at home, that my friends may visit me 
the oftener." 

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs 
would permit us to ascend, till we came to what 
he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor 
down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a 
voice from within demanded who's there? My con- 
ductor answered that it was him. But ibis, not 
satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the 
demand: to which he answered louder than before; 
and now the door was opened by an old woman 
with cautious reluctance. 

When -we were got in, he welcomed me to his 
house with great ceremony, and turning to the old 
woman, asked where was her lady? "Good troth," 
rephed she, in a peculiar dialect, "she's washing 
your twa shirts at the next door, because they have 
taken an oath against lending out the tub any 
longer." "My two shirts," ciied he, in a tone 
that faltered with confusion, " what does the idiot 
mean?" " 1 ken what I mean weel enough," replied 
the other; "she's washing your twa shirts at the 
next door, because — " " Fire and fury, no more 
of thy stupid explanations," cried he ; " go and in- 
form her we have got company. Were that Scotch 
hag to be for ever in my family, she would never 
learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous 
accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of 
breeding or high life ; and yet it is very surprising 
too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of 
mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men 
in the world ; but that's a secret." 

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs's arrival, 
during which interval I had a full opportunity -of 
surveying the chamber and all its furniture : which 
consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, 
that he assured me were his wife's embroidery; a 
square table that had been once japanned ; a cradle 
in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the other ; a 
broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a 
head, were stuck over the chimney ; and round the 
walls several paltry imframed pictures, which, he 
observed, were all his own drawing. " What do 
you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in 
the manner of Grisoni? there's the true keeping in 
it; it is my own face, and though there happens to 
be no likeness, a countess offered me a hundred for 
its fellow : I refused her, for, hang it, that would be 
mechanical, you know." 

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a 
slattern and a coquette; much emaciated, but still 
carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty 
apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille, 
but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all 
night at the gardens with the countess, who was 
excessively fond of the horns. "And indeed, my 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



317 



dear," added she, turning to her husband, " his 
lordship drank }'our health in a bumper." — "Poor 
Jaclc," cries he, " a dear good-natured creature, I 
know he loves me : but I hope, my dear, you have 
given orders for dinner ; you need make no great 
preparations neither, there are but three of us ; 
something elegant and little will do ; a turbot, an 

ortolan, a " "Or what do you think, my 

dear," interrupted the wife, "of a nice pretty bit 
of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of 
my own sauceT' — " The very thing," replies he, 
" it will eat best with some smart bottled beer : but 
be sure to let us have the sauce his grace was so foud 
of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is 
country all over ; extremely disgusting to those who 
are in the least acquainted with high life." 

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and 
my appetite to increase : the company of fools may 
at first make us smile, but at last never fails of 
rendering us melancholy ; I therefore pretended to 
recollect a prior engagement, and, after having 
shown my respect to the house, according to the 
fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a 
piece of money at the door, I took my leave ; Mrs. 
Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I stayed, would 
be ready at least in less than two hours. 



LETTER LVI. i 

From Fum Hoam to Altangi, the discontented Wanderer. 

The distant sounds of music, that catch new 
sweetness as they vibrate through the long-drawn 
valley, are not more pleasing to the ear than the 
tidings of a far distant friend. 

I have just received two hundred of thy letters 
by the Russian caravan, descriptive of the manners 
of Europe. You have left it to geographers to de- 
termine the size of their mountains, and extent of 
their lakes, seeming only employed in discovering 
the genius, the government, and disposition of the 
people. 

In those letters I perceive a journal of the opera- 
tions of your mind upon whatever occurs, rather 
than a detail of your travels from one building to 
another ; of your taking a draught of this ruin, or 
that obelisk ; of paying so many tomans for this 
commodity, or laying up a proper store for the 
passage of some new wilderness. 

From your account of Russia, I learn that this 
nation is again relaxing into pristine barbarity ; 
that its great emperor wanted a life of a hundred 
years more, to bring about his vast design. A 
savage people may be resembled to their own 
forests ; a few years are sufficient to clear away the 
obstructions to agriculture ; but it requires many, 
ere the ground acquires a proper degree of fertili- 
ty; the Russians, attached to their ancient preju- 



dices, again renew their hatred to strangers, and 
indulge every former brutal excess. So true it is, 
that the revolutions of wisdom are slow and diffi- 
cult; the revolutions of folly or ambition precipi- 
tate and easy. We are not to be astonished, says 
Confucius,* that the wise walk more slowly in their 
road to virtue, than fools in their passage to vice; 
since passion drags us along, while wisdom only 
points out the way. 

The German empire, that remnant of the ma- 
jesty of ancient Rome, appears, from your account, 
on the eve of dissolution. The members of its vast 
body want every tie of government to unite them, 
and seem feebly held together only by their respect 
for ancient institutions. The very name of coun- 
try and countrymen, which in other nations makes 
one of the strongest bonds of government, has been 
here for some time laid aside; each of its inhabi- 
tants seeming more proud of being called from the 
petty state which gives him birth, than by the 
more well-known title of German. 

This government may be regarded in the light 
of a severe master and a feeble opponent. The 
states which are now subject to the laws of the 
empire are only watching a proper occasion to fling 
off the yoke, and those which are become too pow- 
erful to be compelled to obedience now begin to 
think of dictating in their turn. The struggles 
in this state are, therefore, not in order to preserve, 
but to destroy the ancient constitution : if one side 
succeeds, the government must become despotic, 
if the other, several states will subsist without even 
nominal subordination ; but in either case, the 
Germanic constitution will be no more. 

Sweden, on the contrary, though now seemingly 
a strenuous assertor of its Uberties, is probably only 
hastening on to despotism. Their senators, while 
they pretend to vindicate the freedom of the peo- 
ple, are only establishing their own independence. 
The deluded people will, however, at last perceive 
the miseries of an aristocratical government ; they 
will perceive that the administration of a society 
of men is ever more painful than that of one only. 
They will fly from this most oppressive of all 
forms, where one single member is capable of con- 
trolling the whole, to take refuge under the throne, 
which will ever be attentive to their complaints. 
No people long endure an aristocratical govern- 
ment when they can apply elsewhere for redress. 
The lower orders of people may be enslaved for a 
time by a number of tyrants, but, upon the first op- 
portunity, they will ever take a refuge in despot- 
ism or democracy. 

As the Swedes are making concealed approach- 
es to despotism, the French, on the other hand, 



* Though this fine maxim be not found in the Latin edition 
of the Morals of Confucius, yet we find it ascribed to him by 
Le Comte. Etat present de la Chine, Vol. I. p. 342, 



318 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



are imperceptibly -vindicating themselves into free- 
dom. When I consider that those parliaments 
(the members of which are all created by the court, 
the presidents of which can act only by immediate 
direction) presume even to mention privileges and 
freedom, who, till of late, received directions from 
the throne with implicit humility; when this is 
considered, I can not help fancying that the genius 
of freedom has entered that kingdom in disguise. 
If they have but three weak monarchs more suc- 
cessively on the throne, the mask will be laid aside, 
and the country will certainly once more be free. 

When I compare the figure which the Dutch 
make in Europe with that they assume in Asia, I 
am struck with surprise. In Asia, I find them the 
great lords of all the Indian seas : in Europe the 
timid inhabitants of a paltry state. No longer the 
sons of freedom, but of avarice; no longer assertors 
of their rights by courage, but by negotiations; 
fawning on those who insult them, and crouching 
under the rod of every neighbouring power. With- 
out a friend to save them in distress, and without 
virtue to save themselves; their government is 
poor, and their private wealth will serve but to 
invite some neighbouring invader. 

I long with impatience for your letters from 
England, Denmark, Holland, and Italy ; yet why 
wish for relations which only describe new calami- 
ties, which show that ambition and avarice are 
equally terrible in every region ! Adieu. 



LETTER LVII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekiu, in China. 

I HAVE frequently admired the manner of criti- 
cising in China, where the learned are assembled 
in a body to judge of every new publication; to 
examine the merits of the work, without knowing 
the circumstances of the author ; and then to 
usher it into the world with proper marks of respect 
or reprobation. 

In England there are no such tribunals erected ; 
but if a man thinks proper to be a judge of genius, 
few will be at the pains to contradict his preten- 
sions. If any choose to be critics, it is but saying 
they are critics ; and from that time forward, they 
become invested with full power and authority over 
every caitiff who aims at their instruction or en- 
tertainment. 

As almost every member of society has, by this 
means, a vote in literary transactions, it is no way 
surprising to find the rich leading the way here, as 
in other common concerns of life; to see them 
either bribing the numerous herd of voters by their 
interest, or browbeating them by their authority. 

A great man says at his table, that such a book 



is no bad thing. Immediately the praise is car- 
ried off by five flatterers to be dispersed at twelve 
different coffee-houses, from whence it circulates, 
still improving as it proceeds, through forty -five 
houses, where cheaper liquors are sold ; from thence 
it is carried away by the honest tradesman to his 
own fire-side, where the applause is eagerly caught 
up by his wife and children, who have been long 
taught to regard his judgment as the standard of 
perfection. Thus, when we have traced a wide 
extended literary reputation up to its original 
source, we shall find it derived from some great 
man, who has, perhaps, received all his education 
and English from a tutor of Berne, or a dancing; 
master of Picardy. 

The English are a people of good sense; and I 
am the more surprised to find them swayed in 
their opinions by men who often, from their 
very education, are incompetent judges. Men 
who, being always bred in affluence, see the world 
only on one side, are surely improper judges of 
human nature; they may indeed describe a cere- 
mony, a pageant, or a ball; but how can they pre- 
tend to dive into the secrets of the human heart, 
who have been nursed up only in forms, and daily 
behold nothing but the same insipid adulation 
smiling upon every face. Few of them have been 
bred in that best of schools, the school of adversi- 
ty; and, by what 1 can lear% fewer still have been 
bred in any school at all. 

From such a description, one would think, that 
a droning duke, or a dowager duchess, was not 
possessed of more just pretensions to taste than 
persons of less quality ; and yet whatever the ona 
or the other may write or praise, shall pass for 
perfection, without further examination. A no- 
bleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper, 
write away through three large volumes, and then 
sign his name to the title page ; though the whole 
might have been before more disgusting than his 
own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives 
value to the deed ; title being alone equivalent to 
taste, imagination, and genius. 

As soon as a piece therefore is pubUshed, the 
first questions are. Who is the author? Does he 
keep a coach ? Where lies his estate 1 What 
sort of a table does he keep 7 If he happens to be 
poor and unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and 
his works sink into irremediable obscurity ; and too 
late he finds, that having fed upon turtle is a more 
ready way to fame than having digested Tully. 

The poor devil against whom fashion has set 
its face, vainly alleges, that he has been bred in 
every part of Europe where knowledge was to be 
sold ; that he has grown pale in the study of na- 
ture and himself; his works may please upon the 
perusal, but his pretensions to fame are entirely 
disregarded ; he is treated Uke a fiddler, whose mu- 
sic, though liked, is not much praised, because he 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



319 



lives by it ; while a gentleman performer, though 
the most wretched scraper alive, throws the audi- 
ence into raptures. The fiddler indeed may, in 
such a case console himself by thinking, that while 
the other goes off with all the praise, he runs away 
with all the money; but here the parallel drops; 
tor while the nobleman triumphs in unmerited ap- 
plause, the author by profession steals off with — 
nothing. 

The poor, therefore, here, who draw their pens 
auxiliary to the laws of their country, must think 
themselves very happy if they find, not fame but 
forgiveness : and yet they are hardly treated ; for 
as every country grows more polite, the press be- 
comes more useful; and writers become more neces- 
sary, as readers are supposed to increase. In a 
polished society, that man, though in rags, who has 
the power of enforcing virtue from the press, is of 
more real use than forty stupid brahmins, or 
bonzes, or guebres, though they preached ever so 
often, ever so loud, or ever so long. That man, 
though in rags, who is capable of deceiving even 
indolence into wisdom, and who professes amuse- 
ment while he aims at reformation, is more useful 
in refined society than twenty cardinals, with all 
their scarlet, and tricked out in all the fopperies of 
scholastic finery. 



LETTER LVIIL 



To the Same. 



As the man in black takes every opportunity of 
introducing me to such company as may serve to 
indulge my speculative temper, or gratify my curi- 
osity, I was by his influence lately invited to a 
visitation dinner. To understand this term you 
must know, that it was formerly the custom here 
for the principal priests to go about the country 
once a-year, and examine upon the spot, whether 
those of subordinate orders did their duty, or were 
qualified for the task ; whether their temples were 
kept in proper repair, or the laity pleased with their 
administration. 

Though a visitation of this nature was very use- 
ful, yet it was found to be extremely troublesome, 
and for many reasons utterly inconvenient ; for as 
the principal priests were obliged to attend at court, 
in order to solicit preferment, it was impossible 
they could at the same time attend in the country, 
which was quite out of the road to promotion: if 
we add to this the gout, which has been time im- 
memorial a clerical disorder here, together with the 
bad wine and ill-dressed provisions that must in- 
fallibly be served up by the way, it was not strange 
that the custom has been long discontinued. At 
present, therefore, every head of the church, instead 
of going about to visit his priests, is satisfied if his 



priests come in a body once a year to visit him : by 
this means the duty of half a-year is dispatched in 
a day. When assembled, he asks each in his turn 
how they have behaved, and are liked ; upon which, 
those who have neglected their duty, or are dis- 
agreeable to their congregation, no doubt accuse 
themselves, and tell him all their faults ; for which 
he reprimands them most severely. 

The thoughts of being introduced into a com- 
pany of philosophers and learned men (for as such 
I conceived them) gave me no small pleasure. I 
expected our entertainment would resemble those 
sentimental banquets so finely described by Xeno- 
phon and Plato: I was hoping some Socrates 
would be brought in from the door, in order to 
harangue upon divine love; but as for eating and 
drinking, I had prepared myself to be disappointed 
in that particular. I was apprised that fasting and 
temperance were tenets strongly recommended to 
the professors of Christianity, and I had seen the 
frugaUty and mortification of the priests of the 
East ; so that I expected an entertainment where 
we should have much reasoning and little meat. 

Upon being introduced, I confess I found no 
great signs of mortification in the faces or persons 
of the company. However, I imputed their florid 
looks to temperance, and their corpulency to a se- 
dentary way of living. I saw several preparations 
indeed for dinner, but none for philosophy. The 
company seemed to gaze upon the table with si- 
lent expectation : but this I easily excused. Men 
of wisdom, thought I, are ever slow of speech ; they 
deliver nothing unadvisedly. Silence, says Con- 
fucius, is a friend that will never betray. They 
are now probably inventing maxims or hard say- 
ings for their mutual instruction, when some one 
shall think proper to begin. 

My curiosity was now wrought up to the highest 
pitch ; I impatiently looked round to see if any 
were going to interrupt the mighty pause ; when at 
last one of the company declared, that there was a 
sow in his neighbourhood that farrowed fifteen pigs 
at a litter. This I thought a very preposterous 
beginning; but just as another was going to second 
the remark, dinner was served, which interrupted 
the conversation for that time. 

The appearance of dinner, which consisted of a 
variety of dishes, seemed to diffuse new cheerful- 
ness upon every face ; so that 1 now expected the 
philosophical conversation to begin, as they im- 
proved in good-humour. The principal priest, 
however, opened his mouth with only observing, 
that the venison had not been kept enough, though 
he had given strict orders for having it killed ten 
days before, "I fear," continued he, "it will be 
found to want the true heathy flavour; you will 
find nothing of the original wildness in it." A 
priest, who sat next him, having smelt it, and 
wiped his nose, "Ah, my good lord," cries he, 



320 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



"you are too modest, it is perfectly fine ; everybody 
knows that nobody understands keeping venison 
with your lordship." — "Ay, and partridges too," 
interrupted another; "I never find them right any 
■where else." His lordship was going to reply, 
when a third took off the attention of the company, 
by recommending the pig as inimitable. "I fancy, 
my lord," continues he, "it has been smothered in 
its own blood." — "If it has been smothered in its 
blood," cried a facetious member, helping himself, 
"we'll now smother it in egg-sauce." This poig- 
nant piece of humour produced a long loud laugh, 
which the facetious brother observing, and now 
that he was in luck, willing to second his blow, 
assured the company he would tell them a good 
story about that: "As good a story," cries he, 
bursting into a violent fit of laughter himself, "as 
ever you heard in your lives. There was a farmer 
in my parish who used to sup upon wild ducks 
and flummery ; — so this farmer" — " Doctor Mar- 
rowfat," cries his lordship, interrupting him, "give 
me leave to drink your health ;" — "so being fond 
of wild ducks and flummery," — " Doctor," adds a 
gentleman who sat next to him, "let me advise 
you to a wing of this turkey;" — "so this farmer 
being fond " — " Hob and nob. Doctor, which do 
you choose, white or red?" — "So, being fond of 
wild ducks and flummery ; " — " Take care of your 
band, sir, it may dip in the gravy." The doctor, 
now looking round, found not a single eye disposed 
to listen; wherefore, calling for a glass of wine, he 
gulped down the disappointment and the tale in a 
bumper. 

The conversation now began to be little more 
than a rhapsody of exclamations : as each had 
pretty well satisfied his own appetite, he now found 
sufficient time to press others. "Excellent! the 
very thing ! let me recommend the pig. Do but 
taste the bacon ! never ate a better thing in my 
life: exquisite! delicious!" This edifying dis- 
course continued through three courses, which last- 
ed as many hours, till every one of the company 
were unable to swallow or utter any thing more. 

It is very natural for men who are abridged in 
one excess, to break into some other. The clergy 
here, particularly those who are advanced in years, 
think if they are abstemious with regard to women 
and wine, they may indulge their other appetites 
without censure. Thus some are found to rise in 
the morning only to a consultation with their cook 
about dinner, and when that has been swallowed, 
make no other use of their faculties (if they have 
any) but to ruminate on the succeeding meal. 

A debauch in wine is even more pardonable 
than this, since one glass insensibly leads on to 
another, and instead of sating, whets the appetite. 
The progressive steps to it are cheerful and se- 
ducing; the grave are animated, the melancholy 
relieved, and there is even classic authority to 



countenance the excess. But in eating, after na- 
ture is once satisfied, every additional morsel brings 
stupidity and distempers with it, and as one of 
their own poets expresses it, 

Tlie soul subsides, and wickedly inclines 
To seem but mortal, even in sound divines. 

Let me suppose, after such a meal as this I have 
been describing, while all the company are sitting 
in lethargic silence round the table, groaning un- 
der a load of soup, pig, pork, and bacon ; let me 
suppose, I say, some hungry beggar, with looks of 
want, peeping through one of the windows, and 
thus addressing the assembly: "Prithee, pluck 
those napkins from your chins; after nature is; 
satisfied, all that you eat extraordinary is my 
propertj', and I claim it as mine. It was given 
you in order to relieve me, and not to oppress 
yourselves. How can they comfort or instruct 
others, who can scarcely feel their own existence, 
except from the unsavoury returns of an ill-digest- 
ed meal? But though neither you, nor the cush- 
ions you sit upon will hear me, yet the world re- 
gards the excesses of its teachers with a prying eye, 
and notes their conduct with double severity." I 
know no other answer any one of the company 
could make to such an expostulation but this: 
"Friend, ^ /U talk of our losing a character, and 
being disiiiced by the world ; well, and supposing 
all this to be true, what then ! who cares for the 
world? We'll preach for the world, and the world 
shall pay us for preaching, whether we like each 
other or not." 



LETTER LIX. 
From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow. 

You will probably be pleased to see my letter 
dated from Terki, a city which hes beyond the 
bounds of the Persian empire: here, blessed with 
security, with all that is dear, I double my rap- 
tures by communicating them to you : the mind 
sympathising with the freedom of the body, my 
whole soul is dilated in gratitude, love, and praise. 

Yet, were my own happiness all that inspired my 
present joy, my raptures might justly merit the 
imputation of self-interest ; but when I think that 
the beautiful Zelis is also free, forgive my triumph 
when I boast of having rescued from captivity the 
most deserving object upon earth. 

You remember the reluctance she testified at 
being obliged to marry the tyrant she hated. Her 
compliance at last was only feigned, in order to 
gain time to try some future means of escape. 
During the interval between her promise and the 
intended performance of it, she came undiscovered 
one evening to the place where 1 generally retired 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



321 



after the fatigues of the day: her appearance was 
like that of an aerial genius when it descends to 
minister comfort to undeserved distress ; the mild 
lustre of her eye served to banish my timidity ; her 
accents were sweeter than the echo of some dis- 
tant symphony. "Unhappy stranger," said she, 
in the Persian language, "you here perceive one 
more wretched than thyself ! All this solemnity 
of preparation, this elegance of dress, and the 
number of my attendants, serve but to increase my 
miseries : if you have courage to rescue an unhap- 
py woman from approaching ruin, and our detest- 
ed tyrant, you may depend upon my future grati- 
tude." I bowed to the ground, and she left me, 
filled with rapture and astonishment. Night 
brought me no rest, nor could the ensuing morn- 
ing calm the anxieties of my mind. I projected a 
thousand methods for her delivery; but each, when 
strictly examined, appeared impracticable : in this 
uncertainty the evening again arrived, and I placed 
myself on my former station in hopes of a repeated 
visit. After some short expectation, the bright 
perfection again appeared : 1 bowed, as before, to 
the ground; when raising me up, she observed, 
that the time was not to be spent in useless cere- 
mony; she observed that the day following was 
appointed for the celebration of her nuptials, and 
that something was to be done that very night for 
our mutual deliverance. I offered with the utmost 
humility to pursue whatever scheme she should di- 
rect ; upon which she proposed that instant to scale 
the garden-wall, adding, that she had prevailed upon 
a female slave, who was now waiting at the ap- 
pointed place, to assist her with a ladder. 

Pursuant to this information, I led her trembling 
to the place appointed ; but instead of the slave we 
expected to see, Mostadad himself was there await- 
ing our arrival : the wretch in whom we had con- 
fided, it seems, had betrayed our design to her mas- 
ter, and he now saw the most convincing proofs 
of her information. He was just going to draw 
his sabre, when a principle of avarice repressed 
his fury ; and he resolved, after a severe chastise- 
ment, to dispose of me to another master ; in the 
mean time ordered me to be confined in the strict- 
est manner, and the next day to receive a hundred 
blows on the soles of my feet. 

When the morning came, I was led out in order 
to receive the punishment, which, from the severity 
with which it is generally inflicted upon slaves, is 
worse even than death. 

A trumpet was to be the signal for the solemni- 
zation of the nuptials of Zelis, and for the inflic- 
tion of my punishment. Each ceremony, to me 
equally dreadful, was just going to begin, when we 
were informed that a large body of Circassian Tar- 
tars had invaded the town, and were laying all in 
ruin. Every person now thought only of saving 
himself: I instantly unloosed the cords with which 
21 



I was bound, and seizing a scimitar from one of 
the slaves, who had not courage to resist me, flew 
to the women's apartment where Zelis was con- 
fined, dressed out for the intended nuptials. I 
bade her follow me without delay, and going for- 
ward, cut my way through the eunuchs, who made 
but a faint resistance. The whole city was now a 
scene of conflagration and terror; every person was 
willing to save himself, unmindful of others. In 
this confusion, seizing upon two of the fleetest 
coursers in the stables of Mostadad, we fled north- 
ward towards the kingdom of Circassia. As there 
were several others flying in the same manner, we 
passed without notice, and in three days arrived at 
Terki, a city that lies in a valley within the bosom 
of the frowning moxmtains of Caucasus. Here, 
free from every apprehension of danger, we enjoy 
all those satisfactions which are consistent with 
virtue : though ! find my heart at intervals give 
way to unusual passions, yet such is my admira- 
tion for my fair compajiion, that I lose even ten- 
derness in distant respect. Though her person 
demands particular regard even among the beau- 
ties of Circassia, yet is her mind far more lovely. 
How very different is a woman w!io thus has cul- 
tivated her understanding, and been refined into 
delicacy of sentiznent, from the daughters of the 
East, whose education is only formed to improve 
the person, and make them more tempting objects 
of prostitution. Adieu. 



LETTER LX. 



From the Same. 



When sufliciently refreshed after the fatigues 
of our precipitate flight, my curiosity, which had 
been restrained by the appearance of immediate 
danger, now began to revive : I longed to know 
by what distressful accident my fair fugitive be- 
came a captive, and could not avoid testifying a 
surprise how so much beaut}' could be involved in 
the calamities from whence she had been so lately 
rescued. 

Talk not of personal charms, cried she, with 
emotion, since to them I owe every misfortune. 
Look round on the numberless beauties of the 
country where we are, and see how nature has 
poured its charms upon every face; and yet by 
this profusion, Heaven would seem to show how 
little it regards such a blessing, since the gift is 
lavished upon a nation of prostitutes. 

I perceive you desire to know my story, and 
your curiosity is not so great as my impatience to 
gratify it : I find a pleasure in telling past misfor- 
tunes to any, but when my deliverer is pleased 
with the relation, my pleasure is prompted by 
duty. 



323 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



" I was born in a country far to the West, where 
the men are braver, and the women more fair than 
those of Circassia ; where the valour of the hero 
is guided by wisdom, and where delicacy of senti- 
ment points the shafts of female beauty. I was 
the only daughter of an officer in the army, the 
child of his age, and as he used fondly to express 
it, the only chain that bound him to the world, 
or made his life pleasing. His station procured 
him an acquaintance with men of greater rank 
and fortune than himself, and his regard for me 
induced him to bring me into every iamily where 
he was acquainted. Thus 1 was early taught all 
the elegancies and fashionable foibles of such as the 
world calls polite, and, though without fortune my- 
self, was taught to despise those who lived as if 
they were poor. 

" My intercourse with the great, and my affec- 
tation of grandeur, procured me many lovers ; but 
want of fortune deterred them all from any other 
views than those of passing the present moment 
agreeably, or of meditating my future ruin. In 
every company I found myself addressed in a 
warmer strain of passion than other ladies who 
were superior in point of rank and beauty ; and 
this I imputed to an excess of respect, which in 
reality proceeded from very different motives. 

" Among the number of such as paid me their 
addresses, was a gentleman, a friend of my father, 
rather in the decline of life, with nothing remarka- 
ble either in his person or address to recommend 
him. His age, which was about forty, his fortune, 
which was moderate, and barely sufficient to sup- 
port him, served to throw me off my guard, so 
that I considered him as the only sincere admirer 
I had. 

" Designing lovers, in the decline of life, arc ever 
most dangerous. Skilled in all the weaknesses of 
the sex, they seize each favourable opportunity; 
and, by having less passion than youthful admirers, 
have less real respect, and therefore less timidity. 
This insidious wretch used a thousand arts to 
succeed in his base designs, all which 1 saw, but 
imputed to different views, because I thought it 
absurd to believe the real motives. 

"As he continued to frequent my father's, the 
friendship between them became every day greater; 
and at last, from the intimacy with which he was 
received, I was taught to look upon him as a guard- 
ian and a friend. Though I never loved, yet I es- 
teemed him; and this was enough to make me 
wish for a union, for which he seemed desirous, 
but to which he feigned several delays ; while in the 
mean time, from a false report of our being married, 
every other admirer forsook me. 

" I was at last however awakened from the de- 
lusion, by an account of his being just married to 
another young lady with a considerable fortune. 
1'his was no great mortification to me, as I had 



always regarded him merely from prudential mo- 
tives ; but it had a very different effect upon my 
father, who, rash and passionate by nature, and, 
besides, stimulated by a mistaken notion of mili- 
tary honour, upbraided his friend in such terms, 
that a challenge was soon given and accepted. 

It was about midnight when I was awakened by 
a message from my father, who desired to see me 
that moment. I rose with some surprise, and fol- 
lowing the messenger, attended only by another 
servant, came to a field not far from the house, 
where I found him, the assertor of my honour, my 
only friend and supporter, the tutor and compan- 
ion of my youth, lying on one side covered over 
with blood, and just expiring ! — no tears streamed 
down my cheeks, nor sigh escaped from my breast, 
at an object of such terror. I sat down, and sup- 
porting his aged head in my lap, gazed upon the 
ghastly visage with an agony more poignant even 
than despairing madness. The servants were 
gone for more assistance. In this gloomy stillness 
of the night no sounds were heard but his agoniz- 
ing respirations ; no object was presented but his 
wounds, which still continued to stream. With 
silent anguish I hung over his dear face, and with 
my hands strove to stop the blood as it flowed from 
his wounds : he seemed at first insensible, but at 
last, turning his dying eyes upon me, ' My dear, 
dear child,' cried he ; ' dear, though you have for- 
gotten your own honour and stained mine, I will 
yet forgive you ; by abandoning virtue, you have 
undone me and yourself, yet take my forgiveness- 
with the same compassion I wish Heaven may 
pity me.' He expired. All my succeeding happi- 
ness fled with him. Reflecting that I was the 
cause of his death whom only I loved upon earth ; 
accused of betraying the honour of his family with 
his latest breath ; conscious of my own innocence, 
yet without even a possibility of vindicating it : 
without fortune or friends to relieve or pity me ; 
abandoned to infamy and the wide censuring 
world, I called out upon the dead body that lay 
stretched before me, and in the agony of my heart 
asked, why he could have left me thus 7 ' Why, 
my dear, my only papa, why could you ruin me 
thus and yourself, forever? O pity and return, 
since there is none but you to comfort me !' 

" I soon found that I had real cause for sorrow ; 
that I was to expect no compassion from my own 
sex, nor assistance from the other ; and that repu- 
tation was much more useful in our commerce with 
mankind than really to deserve it. Wherever I 
came, I perceived myself received either with con- 
tempt or detestation ; or, whenever I was civilly 
treated, it was from the most base and ungenerous 
motives. 

" Thus driven from the society of the virtuous, 
1 was at last, in order to dispel the anxieties of in- 
supportable sohtude, obliged to take up with the 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



323 



company of those whose characters were blasted 
like my own ; but who perhaps deserved their in- 
famy. Among this number was a lady of the first 
distinction, whose character the public thought 
proper to brand even with greater infamy than 
mine. A simihtude of distress soon united us ; I 
knew that general reproach had made her misera- 
ble ; and I had learned to regard misery as an ex- 
cuse for guilt. Though this lady had not virtue 
enough to avoid reproach, yet she had too much 
delicate sensibility not to feel it. She therefore 
proposed our leaving tlie country where we were 
born, and going to live in Italy, where our charac- 
ters and misfortunes would be unknown. With 
this I eagerly complied, and we soon found our- 
selves in one of the most charming retreats in the 
most beautiful province of that enchanting country. 

" Had my companion chosen this as a retreat 
for injured virtue, a harbour where we might look 
with tranquillity on the distant angry world, I 
should have been happy; but very diiTerent was 
her design; she had pitched upon this situation 
only to enjoy those pleasures in private which she 
had not sufficient effrontery to satisfy in a more 
open manner. A nearer acquaintance soon showed 
me the vicious part of her character ; her mind, as 
Well as her body, seemed formed only for pleasure ; 
she was sentimental only as it served to protract 
the immediate enjoyment. Formed for society 
alone, she spoke infinitely better than she wrote, 
and wrote infinitel}"- better than she lived. A per 
son devoted to pleasure often leads the most misera- 
ble life imaginable ; such was her case : she consi- 
dered the natural moments of languor as insup- 
portable ; passed all her hours between rapture and 
anxiety; ever in an extreme of agony or of bliss. 
She felt a pain as severe for want of appetite, 
the starving wretch who wants a meal. In those 
intervals she usually kept her bed, and rose only 
when in expectation of some new enjo^^nicnt. The 
luxuriant air of the country, the romantic situation 
of her palace, and the genius of a people whose only 
happiness lies in sensual refinement, all contri- 
buted to banish the remembrance of her native 
countr3\ 

" But though such a life gave her pleasure, it had 
a very different effect upon me ; I grew every day 
more pensive, and my melancholy was regarded as 
an insult upon her good humour. I now perceived 
myself entirely unfit for all society ; discarded from 
the good, and detesting the infamous, i seemed in 
a state of war with every rank of people ; that vir- 
tue, which should have been my protection in the 
world, was here my crime : in short, detesting life, 
I was determined to become a recluse, and to leave 
a world where I found no pleasure that could allure 
me to stay. Thus determined, I embarked in order 
to go by sea to Rome, where I intended to take the 
veil : but even in so short a passage my hard for- ; 



tune still attended me ; our sliip was taken by a 
Barbary corsair ; the whole crew, and I among the 
number, being made slaves. It carries too much 
the air of romance to inform you of my distresses 
or obstinancy in this miserable state ; it is enough 
to observe, that I have been bought by several mas- 
ters, each of whom perceiving my reluctance, rather 
than use violence, sold me to anotln*!, till it was my 
happiness to be at last rescued by you." 

Thus ended her relation, which I have abridged, 
but as soon as we are arrived at Moscow, for which 
we intend to set out shortly, you shall be informed 
of all more particula.iy. In the meantime the 
greatest addition to my happiness will be to hear 
of yours. Adieu. 



LETTER LXL 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo. 

The news of your freedom lifts the load of for- 
mer anxiety from my mind ; 1 can now think of my 
son without reget, applaud his resignation under 
calamities, and his conduct in extricating himself 
from them. 

You are now free, just let loose from the bond- 
age of a hard master: this is the crisis of your 
fate ; and as you now manage fortune, succeeding 
life will be marked with happiness or misery. A 
few years' perseverance in prudence, which at your 
age is but another name for virtue, will insure com- 
fort, pleasure, tranquillity, esteem; too eager an 
enjoyment of every good that now offers, will re- 
verse the medal, and present you with poverty, 
anxiety, remorse, contempt. 

As it has been observed, tliat none are better 
quaUfiedto give others advice, than those who have 
taken the least of it themselves ; so in this respect 
I find myself perfectly authorized to offer mine, 
even though I should wave my paternal authority 
upon this occasion. 

The most usual way among young men who 
have no resolution of their own, is first to ask one 
friend's advice and follow it for some time; then to 
ask advice of another, and turn to that ; so of a 
third, still unsteady, always changing. However, 
be assured, that every change of this nature is for 
the worse : people may tell you of your being unfit 
for some peculiar occupations in life; but heed them 
not ; whatever employment you follow with perse- 
verance and assiduity, will be found fit for you ; it 
will be your support in youth, and comfort in age. 
In learning the useful part of every profession, very 
moderate abilities will suffice ; even if the mind be 
a little balanced with stupidity, it may in this case 
be useful. Great abilities have always been less 
serviceable to the possessors than moderate ones. 
Life has been compared to a race, but the allusion 



324 



GOLDSMIT&S WORKS. 



still improves by observing, that the most swift are 
ever the least manageable. 

To know one profession only, is enough for one 
man to know; and this (whatever the professors 
may tell you to the contrary) is soon learned. Be 
contented therefore with one good employment ; 
for if you understand two at a time, people will 
give you busin>* s in neither. 

A conjuror and a tailor once happened to con- 
verse together. "Alas," cries the tailor, "what 
an unhappy poor creature am I ; if people should 
ever take it in their heads to live without clothes, I 
am undone , I have no other trade to have recourse 
to." "Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely," re- 
plies the conjuror; "but, thank Heaven, things 
are not quite so bad with me ; for if one trick should 
fail, I tiave a hundred tricks more for them yet. 
However, if at any time you are reduced to beg- 
gary, apply to me, and I will relieve you." A fa- 
mine overspread the land ; the tailor made a shift 
to live, because his customers could not be without 
clothes ; but the poor conjuror with all his hundred 
tricks, could find none that had money to throw 
away : it was in vain that he promised to eat fire, 
or to vomit pins ; no single creature would relieve 
him, till he was at last obliged to beg from the very 
tailor whose calling he had formerly despised. 

There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune 
than pride and resentment. If you must resent 
injuries at all, at least suppress your indignation 
until you become rich, and then show away ; the 
resentment of a poor man is like the efforts of a 
harmless insect to sting ; it may get him crushed, 
but can not defend him. Who values that anger 
which is consumed only in empty menaces ? 

Once upon a time a goose fed its young by a 
pond-side ; and a goose in such circumstances is 
always extremely proud, and excessively punctili- 
ous. If any other animal, without the least design 
to offend, happened to pass that way, the goose was 
immediately at him. The pond, she said, was 
hers, and she would maintain a right in it, and 
support her honour, while she had a bill to hiss, or 
a wing to flutter. In this manner she drove away 
ducks, pigs, and chickens ; nay, even the insidious 
cat was seen to scamper. A lounging mastiff, how- 
ever, happened to pass by, and thought it no harm 
if he should lap a little of the water, as he was 
thirsty. The guardian goose flew at him like a 
fury, pecked at him with her beak, and flapped him 
with her feathers. The dog grew angry, had tw en- 
ty times a good mind to give her a sly snap ; but 
suppressing his indignation, because his master 
was nicrh, " A pox take tlice," cries he, " for a fool! 
sure those who have neither strength nor weapons 
to fight, at least should be civil : that fluttering and 
hissing of thine may one day get thine head snap' 
ped off, but it can neither injure thine enemies, nor 
ever protect thee." So saying, he went forward 



to the pond, quenched his thirstj in spite of the 
goose, and followed his master. 

Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, 
that while they are willing to take offence from 
none, the}'' are also equally desirous of giving none 
offence. From hence they endeavour to please all, 
comply with every request^ attempt to suit them- 
selves to every company, have no will of their own, 
but, like wax, catch every contiguous impression. 
By thus attempting to give universal satisfaction, 
they at last find themselves miserably disappointed: 
to bring the generality of admirers on our side, it is 
sufficient to attempt pleasing a very few. 

A painter of eminence was once resolved to fin- 
ish a piece which should please the whole world. 
When, therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which 
his utmost skill was exhausted, it was exposed in 
the public market-place, with directions at the bot- 
tom for every spectator to mark with a brush, which 
lay by, every limb and feature which seemed erro- 
neous. The spectators came, and in general ap- 
plauded ; but each, willing to sliow his talent at 
criticism, marked whatever he thought proper. At 
evening, when the painter came, he was mortified 
to find the whole picture one universal blot ; not a 
single stroke that was not stigmatized with marks 
of disapprobation : not satisfied with this trial, the 
next day he was resolved to try them in a different 
manner, and exposing his picture as before, desired 
that every spectator would mark those beauties he 
approved or admired. The people complied ; and 
the artist returning, found his picture replete with 
the marks of beauty ; every stroke that had been 
yesterday condemned, now received the character 
of approbation. "Well," cries the painter, "I 
now find that the best way to please one half of the 
world, is not to mind what the other half says ; 
since what are faults in the eyes of these, shall be 
by those regarded as beauties." Adieu. 



LETTER LXIl. 



From the Same. 



A CHARACTER, such as you have represented 
that of your fair companion, which continues vir- 
tuous, though loaded with infamy, is truly great. 
Many regard virtue because it is attended with ap- 
plause ; your favourite only for the internal pleasure 
it confers. I have often wished that ladies like 
her were proposed as models for female imitation, 
and not such as have acquired fam6 by qualities 
repugnant to the natural softness of the sex. 

Women famed for their valour, their skill in 
politics, or their learning, leave the duties of their 
own sex, in order to invade the privileges of ours. 
I can no more pardon a fair one for endeavouring 
to wield the club ef Hercules, than I could him for 
attempting to twirl her distaff. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



325 



The modest virgin, the prudent wife, or the 
careful matron, are much more serviceable in life 
than petticoated philosophers, blustering heroines, 
or virago queens. She who makes her husband 
and her children happy, who reclaims the one fr^in 
vice, and trains up the other to virtue, is a much 
greater character than ladies described in romance, 
whose whole occupation is to murder mankind 
with shafts from their quiver or their eyes. 

Women, it has been observed, are not naturally 
formed for great cares themselves, but to soften 
ours. Their tenderness is the proper reward ibr 
the dangers we undergo for their preservation; and 
the ease and cheerfulness of their conversation, our 
desirable retreat from the flitigues of intense appli- 
cation. They are confined within the narrow 
limits of domestic assiduity : and when they stray 
beyond them, they move beyond their sphere, and 
consequently without grace. 

Fame therefore has been very unjustly dispensed 
among the female sex. Those who least deserved 
to be remembered meet our admiration and ap- 
plause ; while many, who have been an honour to 
humanity, are passed over in silence. Perhaps no 
age has produced a stronger instance of misplaced 
fame than the present; the Semiramis and the 
Thalestris of antiquity are talked of, while a modern 
character, infinitely greater than either, is un- 
noticed and unknown. 

Catharina Alexowna, born near Derpat, a little 
city in Livonia, was heir to no other inheritance 
than the virtues and frugality of her parents. Her 
father being dead, she lived with her aged mother 
in their cottage covered with straw; and both, 
though very poor, were very contented. Here, re- 
tired from the gaze of the world, by the labour of 
her hands she supported her parent, who was now 
incapable of supporting herself. While Catharina 
spun, the old woman would sit by and read some 
book of devotion ; thus, when the fatigues of the 
day were over, both would sit down contentedly 
by their fire-side, and enjoy the frugal meal with 
vacant festivity. 

Though her face and person were models of 
perfection, yet her whole attention seemed bestow- 
ed upon her mind ; her mother taught her to read, 
and an old Lutheran minister instructed her in the 
maxims and duties of religion. Nature had furnish- 
ed her not only with a ready but a solid turn of 
thought, not only with a strong but a right under- 
standing. Such truly female accomplishments 
procured her several solicitations of marriage from 
the peasants of the country ; but their offers were 
refused ; for she loved her mother too tenderly to 
think of a separation. 

Catharina was fifteen when her mother died; 
she now therefore left her cottage, and went to live 
with the Lutheran minister, by whom she had 
been instructed from her childhood. In his house 



she resided in quality of governess to his children ; 
at once reconciling in her character unerring pru- 
dence with surprising vivacity. 

The old man, who regarded her as one of his 
own children, had her instructed in dancing and 
music by the masters who attended the rest of his 
family ; thus she continued to improve till he died, 
by which accident she was once more reduced to 
pristine poverty. The country of Livonia was at 
this time wasted by war, and lay in a most miser- 
able state of desolation. Those calamities are ever 
most heavy upon the poor; wherefore Catharina, 
though possessed of so many accomplishments, ex- 
perienced all the miseries of hopeless indigence. 
Provisions becoming every day more scarce, and 
her private stock being entirely exhausted, she re- 
solved at last to travel to Marienburgh, a city of 
greater plenty. 

With her scanty wardrobe packed up in a wal- 
let, she set out on her journey on foot : she was to 
walk through a region miserable by nature, but 
rendered still more hideous by the Swedes and 
Russians, who, as each happened to become mas- 
ters, plundered it at discretion : but hunger had 
taught her to despise the dangers and fatigues of 
the way. 

One evening upon her journey, as she had enter- 
ed a cottage by the way-side, to take up her lodging 
for the night, she was insulted by two Swedish 
soldiers, who insisted upon qualifying her, as they 
termed it, tofollov: the camp. They might probably 
have carried their insults into violence, had not a 
subaltern officer, accidentally passing by, come in 
to her assistance ; upon his appearing, the soldiers 
immediately desisted; but her thankfulness was 
hardly greater than her surprise, when she instant- 
ly recollected in her deliverer, the son of the Lu- 
theran minister, her former instructor, benefactor, 
and friend. 

This was a happy interview for Catharina : the 
little stock of money she had brought from home 
was by this time quite exhausted ; her clothes were 
gone, piece by piece, in order to satisfy those who 
had entertained her in their houses : her generous 
countryman, therefore, parted with what he could 
spare, to buy her clothes, furnished her with a 
horse, and gave her letters of recommendation to 
Mr. Gluck, a faithful friend of his father's, and 
superintendant at Marienburgh. Our beautiful 
stranger had only to appear to be well received ; 
she was immediately admitted into the superin- 
tendant's family, as governess to his two daughters; 
and though yet but seventeen, showed herself ca- 
pable of instructing her sex, not only in virtue, 
but politeness. Such was her good sense, and 
beauty, that her master himself in a short time 
offered her his hand, which to his great surpiise 
she thought proper to refuse. Actuated by a 
principle of gratitude, she was resolved to marry 



S2G 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



her deliverer only, even though he bad lost an arm, 
and was otherwise disfigured by wounds in the 
service. 

In order therefore to prevent further solicitations 
from others, as soon as the officer came to town 
upon duty, she offered him her person, which he 
accepted with transport, and their nuptials were 
solemnized as usual. But all the lines of her for- 
tune were to be striking : the very day on which 
they were married, the Russians laid siege to 
Marienburgh. The unhappy soldier had now no 
time to enjoy the well-earned pleasures of matri- 
mony; he was called off, before consummation, to an 
attack, from which he was never after seen to return. 

In the mean time the siege went on with fury. 
aggravated on one side by obstinacy, on the other 
by revenge. This war between the two northern 
powers at that time was truly barbarous ; the in- 
nocent peasant, and the harmless virgin, often 
shared the fate of the soldier in arms. Marien- 
burgh was taken by assault ; and such was the fury 
of the assailants, that not only the garrison, but 
almost all the inhabitants, men, women, and child- 
ren, were put to the sword : at length, when the 
carnage was pretty well over, Gatharina was found 
hid in an oven. 

She had been hitherto poor, but still was free ; 
she was now to conform to her hard fate, and learn 
what it was to be a slave : in this situation, how- 
ever, she behaved with piety and humility ; and 
though misfortunes had abated her vivacity, yet 
she was cheerful. The fame of her merit and re- 
signation reached even Prince Menzikoff, the 
flussian general; he desired to see her, was struck 
-with Tier beauty, bought her from the soldier her 
master, and placed her under the direction of his 
own sister. Here she was treated with all the re- 
spect which her merit deserved, while her beauty 
every day improved witli her good fortune. 

She had not been long in this situation, when 
Peter the Great paying the priiT";e a visit, Gathari- 
na happened to come in with .some dry fruits, 
■which she served round with peculiar modesty. 
The mighty monarch saw, and was struck with 
her beauty. He returned the next day, called foi' 
the beautiful slave, asked her several questions^ 
and found her understanding even more perfect 
than her person. 

He had been forced when young to marry from 
motives of interest; he was now resolved to marry 
pursuant to his own inclinations. He immediate- 
ly inquired the history of the fair Livonian, who 
was not yet eighteen. He traced her through the 
vale of obscurity, through all the vicissitudes of her 
fortune, and found her truly great in them all. The 
meanness of her birth was no obstruction to his 
design : their nuptials were solemnized in private ; 
(the Prince assuring his courtiers, that virtue alone 
^E8^;the properest ladder to a throne. 



We now see Gatharina, from the low mud-wall- 
ed cottage, empress of the greatest kingdom upon 
earth. The poor solitary wanderer is now sur- 
rounded by thousands, who find happiness in her 
s<pile. She, who formerly wanted a meal, is now 
capable of diffusing plenty upon whole nations. 
To her fortune she owed a part of this pre-emi- 
nence, but to her virtues more. 

She ever after retained those great qualities 
which first placed her on a throne ; and, while the 
extraordinary prince, her husband, laboured for 
the reformation of his male subjects, she studied 
in her turn the improverjient of her own sex. She 
altered their dresses, introduced mixed assemblies, 
instituted an order of female knighthood ; and at 
length, when she had greatly filled all the stations 
of empress, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died 
without regret, regretted by all. Adieu. 



LETTER LXIIL 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

In every letter I expect accounts of some new 
revolutions in China, some strange occurrence in 
the state, or disaster among my private acquaint- 
ance. I open every packet with tremulous expec- 
tation, and am agreeably disappointed when I find 
my friends and my country continuing in felicity. 
I wander, but they are at rest; they suffer few 
changes but what pass in my own restless imagina- 
tion: it is only the rapidity of my own motion 
gives an imaginary swiftness te objects which are 
in some measure immoveable. 

Yet believe me, my friend, that even Ghina itself 
is imperceptibly degenerating from her ancient 
greatness : her laws are now more venal, and her 
merchants are more deceitful than formerly ; the 
very arts and sciences have run to decay. Observe 
the carvings on our ancient bridges, figures that 
add grace even to nature : there is not an artist now 
in all the empire that can imitate their beauty. Our 
manufactures in porcelain, too, are inferior to what 
we once were famous for ; and even Europe now 
l3,?gins to excel us. There was a time when China 
^„^ the receptacle for strangers; when all were 
w 1 -m ^'^° either came to improve the state, or 
I • •/ ^reatness ; now the empire is shut up 
admu-e its ^ . . ' . j .1, ■ 

from every forexj-^ improvement, and the very m- 
habitants disco^ag "^ ^^^^ °*^^' ^'"'^ prosecutmg 

their own internal advi^ " ^^^' ,. , 

•\i57i ^-u- J V in a state so little sub- 

Whence this degenerac_, 1 1 • . 

ject to external revolutioHs'? ^ , , * 

nu;^ „\.- u ■ werful than ever, 

China, which is now more po . , ' 

"sions, and even 

nexions with 



which is less subject to foreign invi 

assisted in some discoveries by her eo^^ ' 

Europe ; whence come^ it, I say, that S)> ^ empire s 

thus declining so fast^^o barbarity? h^ 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



327 



This decay is surely from nature, and not the 
result of voluntary degeneracy. In a period of 
two or three thousand years she seems at proper 
intervals to produce great minds, with an effort 
resembling that which introduces the vicissitudes 
of seasons. They rise up at once, continue for 
an age, enlighten the world, fall like ripened 
corn, and mankind again gradually relapse into 
pristine barbarity. We Uttle ones look around, 
are amazed at the decline, seek after the causes 
of this invisible decay, attribute to want of en- 
couragement what really proceeds from want of 
power, are astonished to find every art and every 
science in the decline, not considering that autumn 
is over, and fatigued nature again begins to repose 
for some succeeding effort. 

Some periods have been remarkable for the pro- 
duction of men of extraordinary stature; others 
for producing some particular animals in great 
abundance; some for excessive j)lenty; and others 
again for seemingly causeless famine. Nature, 
which shows herself so very different in her visible 
productions, must surely differ also from herself in 
the production of minds, and while she astonishes 
one age with the strength and stature of a Milo or 
a Maximin, may bless another with the wisdom of 
a Plato, or the goodness of an Antonine. 

Let us not then attribute to accident the falling 
off of every nation, but to the natural revolution of 
things. Often in the darkest ages there has ap- 
peared some one man of surprising abilities, who, 
with all his understanding, failed to bring his bar- 
barous age into refinement : all mankind seemed 
to sleep, till nature gave the general call, and then 
the whole world seemed at once roused at the 
voice; science triumphed in every country, and 
the brightness of a single genius seemed lost in a 
galaxy of contiguous glory. 

Thus the enlightened periods in every age have 
been universal. At the time when China lirst be 
gan to emerge from barbarity, the Western world 
was equally rising into refinement; when we had 
our Yau, they had their Sesosfris. In succeeding 
ages, Confucius and Pythagoras seem born nearly 
together, and a train of philosophers then sprung 
up as well in Greece as in China. The period of 
renewed barbarity began to have a universal spread 
much about the same time, and continued for several 
centuries, till in the year of the Christian era 1400, 
the Emperor Yonglo arose to revive the learning 
of the East; while about the same time, the Me- 
dicean family laboured in Italy to raise infant genius 
from the cradle : thus we see politeness spreadino- 
over every part of the world in one age, and bar- 
barity succeeding in another; at one period a blaze 
of light diffusing itselfover the whole world, and at 
another all mankind wrapped up in the profoundest 
ignorance. 



past; and such probably it will ever be. China, I 
have observed, has evidently begun to degenerate 
from its former politeness; and were the learning 
of the Europeans at present candidly considered, 
the decline would perhaps appear to have already 
taken place. We should find among the natives 
of the West, the study of morality displaced for 
mathematical disquisition, or metaphysical subtle- 
ties ; we should find learning begin to separate from 
the useful duties and concerns of life, while none 
ventured to aspire after that character, but they 
who know much more than is truly amusing or 
useful. We should find every great attempt sup- 
pressed by prudence, and the rapturous sublimity 
in writing cooled by a cautious fear of offence. We 
should find few of those daring spirits, who bravely 
ventured to be wrong, and who are willing to hazard 
much for the sake of great acquisitions. Providence 
has indulged the world with a period of almost four 
hundred years' refinement ; does it not now by de- 
grees sink us into our former ignorance, leaving us 
only the love of wisdom, while it deprives us of its 
advantages'^ Adieu. 



LETTER LXIV. 



From the Same. 



The princes of Europe have found out a man- 
ner of rewarding their subjects who have behaved 
well, by presenting them with about two yards of 
blue riband, which is worn about the shoulder. 
They who are honoured with this mark of dis- 
tinction are called knights, and the king himself is 
always the head of the order. This is a very fru- 
gal methou of recompensing the most important 
services: and it is very fortunate for kings that 
their subjects are satisfied with such trifling re- 
wards. Should a nobleman happen to lose his 
leg in a battle, the king presents him with two 
yards of riband, and he is paid for the loss of his 
limb. Should an ambassador spend all liis pater- 
nal fortune in supporting the honour of his coun- 
try abroad, the king presents him with two yards 
of riband, which is to be considered as an equiva- 
lent to his estate. In short, while a European 
king has a yard of blue or green riband left he 
need be under no apprehensions of wanting states- 
men, generals, and soldiers. 

I can not sufficiently admire those kingdoms in 
which men with large patrimonial estates are wil- 
ling thus to undergo real hardships for empty fa- 
vours. A person, already possessed of a compe- 
tent fortune, who undertakes to enter the career of 
ambition, feels many real inconveniences from his 
station, while it procures him no real happiness 
that he was not possessed of before. 



He could eat, 
Such has been the situation of things in times [drink, and sleep, before he became a courtier aa 



328 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



well, perhaps better, than when invested with his 
authority. He could command flatterers in a pri- 
vate station, as well as in his public capacity, and 
indulge at home every favourite inclination, uncen- 
sured and unseen by the people. 

What real good then does an addition to a for- 
tune already sufficient procure 7 Not any. Could 
the great man, by having his fortune increased, 
increase also his appetites, then precedence might 
be attended with real amusement. 

Was he, by having his one thousand made 
two, thus enabled to enjoy two wives, or eat two 
dinners ; then, indeed, he might be excused for un- 
dergoing some pain, in order to extend the sphere 
of his enjoyments. But, on the contrary, he finds 
his desire for pleasure often lessen, as he takes 
pains to be able to improve it ; and his capacity of 
enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to 
increase. 

Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with 
envy, I generally consider them with some share 
of compassion. 1 look upon them as a set of good- 
natured, misguided people, who are indebted to us 
and not to themselves, for all the happiness they 
enjoy. For our pleasure, and not their own, they 
sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for our 
pleasure the lackeyed train, the slow parading pa- 
geant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in 
review : a single coat, or a single footmanj answers 
all the purposes of the most indolent refinement as 
well ; and those who have twenty may be said to 
keep one for their own pleasure, and the other 
nineteen merely for ours. So true is the observa- 
tion of Confucius, that ue take greater pains to 
•persuade others that ice are happy, than endea- 
vouring to think so ourselves. 

But though this desire of being sec-n, of being 
made the subject of discourse, and of supporting 
the dignities of an an exalted station, be trouble- 
some enough to the ambitious ; yet it is well for 
society that there are men thus willing to exchange 
ease and safety for danger and a riband. We lose 
nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to 
endeavour to deprive a child of its rattle. If a duke 
or a duchess are willing to carry a long train for 
our entertainment, so much the worse for them- 
selves ; if they choose .;0 exhibit in public, with a 
hundred lackeys and mamelukcsin their equipage, 
for our entertainment, still so much the worse for 
themselves : it is the spectators alone who give and 
receive the pleasure ; they only arc the sweating 
figures that swell the pageant. 

A mandarine, who took much pride in appear- 
ing with a number of jewels on every part of his 
robe, was once accosted by an old sly Bonze, who, 
followincr Mm through several streets, and bowing 
often to the ground, thanked him for his jewels. 
"What does the man mean 7" cried the manda- 
rine: "Friend, I never gave thee any of my jew- 



els." " No," rephed the other ; " but you have let 
me look at them, and that is all the use you can 
make of them yourself; so there is no difference 
between us, except that you have the trouble of 
watching them, and that is an employment I don't 
much desire." Adieu. 



LETTER LXV. 



From the Same. 



Though not very fond of seeing a pageant my- 
self, yet I am generally pleased with being in the 
crowd which sees it : it is amusing to observe the 
effect which such a spectacle has upon the variety 
of faces ; the pleasure it excites in some, the envy 
in others, and the wishes it raises in all. With 
this design, I lately went to see the entry of a 
foreign ambassador, resolved to make one in the 
mob, to shout as they shouted, to fix with earnest- 
ness upon the same frivolous objects, and partici- 
pate for a while in the pleasures and the wishes 
of the vulgar. 

Struggling here for some time, in order to be 
first to see the cavalcade as it passed, some one of 
the crowd unluckily happened to tread upon my 
shoe, and tore it in such a manner, that I was ut- 
terly unqualified to march forward with the main 
body, and obliged to fall back in the rear. Thus 
rendered incapable of being a spectator of the show 
myself, I was at least willing to observe the spec- 
tators, and limped behind like one of the invalids 
who follow the march of an army. 

In this plight, as I was considering the eager- 
ness that appeared on every face ; how some bustled 
to get foremost, and others contented themselves 
with taking a transient peep when they could : 
how some praised the four black servants that were 
stuck behind one of the equipages, and some the 
ribands that decorated the horses' necks in another; 
my attention was called off to an object more ex- 
traordinary than any I had yet seen ; a poor cobbler 
sat in his stall by the way side, and continued to 
work while the crowd passed by, without testifying 
the smallest share of curiosity. 1 own his want of 
attention excited mine : and as I stood in need of 
his assistance, I thought it best to employ a philo- 
sophic cobbler on this occasion. Perceiving my 
business, therefore, he desired me to enter and sit 
d'jwn, took m}' shoe in his lap, and began to mend 
it with his usual indifference and taciturnity. 

'How, my friend," said I to him, "can you 
continue to work, while all those fine things are 
passing by your doorl" "Very fine they are, 
master," returned the cobbler, " for those that like 
them, to be sure ; but what are all those fine things 
to me 7 You don't know what it is to be a cob- 
bler, and so much the better for yourself. Your 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



329 



bread is baked, you may go and see sights the 
whole day, and eat a warm supper when you come 
home at night ; but for me, if I should run hunt 
ing after all these fine folk, what should I get by 
my journey but an appetite, and, God help me 
I have too much of that at home already, without 
stirring out for it. Your people, who may eat four 
meeds a-day, and a supper at night, are but a bad 
example to such a one as I. No, master, as God 
has called me into this world in order to mend old 
shoes, I have no business with fine folk, and they 
no business with me." I here interrupted him 
■ with a smile. " See this last, master," continues 
he, " and this hammer ; this last and hammer are 
the two best friends I have in this world ; nobody 
else will be my friend, because I want a friend. 
The great folks you saw pass by just now have 
five hundred friends, because they have no occasion 
for them : now, while I stick to my good friends 
here, I am very contented ; but when I ever so 
little run after sights and fine things, I begin to 
hate my work, I grow sad, and have no heart to 
mend shoes any longer." 

This discourse only served to raise my curiosity 
to know more of a man whom nature had thus 
formed into a philosopher. I therefore insensibly 
led him into a history of his adventures : " I have 
lived," said he, "a wandering sort of a life now 
five-and-fifty years, here to-day, and gone to-mor- 
row; for it was my misfortune, when I was young, 
to be fond of changing." " You have been a tra- 
veller, then, I presume," interrupted I. " I can not 
boast much of travelling," continued he, "for I 
have never left the parish in which I was born but 
three times in my life, that I can remember ; but 
then there is not a street in the whole neighbour- 
hood that I have not hved in, at some time or 
another. When I began to settle and to take 
to my business in one street, some unforeseen mis- 
fortune, or a desire of trying my luck elsewhere, 
has removed me, perhaps a whole mile away from 
my former customers, while some more lucky cob- 
bler would come into my place, and make a hand- 
some fortune among friends of my making: there 
was one who actually died in a stall that I had left, 
worth seven pounds seven shillings, all in hard 
gold, which he had quilted into the waistband of 
his breeches." 

I could not but smile at these migrations of a 
man by the fire-side, and continued (o ask if he had 
ever been married. "Ay, that I have, master," 
replied he, "for sixteen long years; and a weary 
life I had of it. Heaven knows. My wife took it 
into her head, that the only way to thrive in this 
world was to save money, so, though ourcominirs- 
in was but about three shillings a-week, all that ever 
she could lay her hands upon slie used to hide away 
from me, though we were obliged to starve the 
whole week after for it. 



" The first three years we used to quarrel about 
this every day, and I always got the better ; but 
she had a hard spirit, and still continued to hide as 
usual : so that I was at last tired of quarrellino' and 
getting the better, and she scraped and scraped at 
pleasure, till I was almost starved to death. Her 
conduct drove me at last in despair to the ale-house ; 
here I used to sit with people who hated home like 
myself, drank while I had money left, and run in 
score when any body would trust me ; till at last 
the landlady, coming one day with a long bill when 
I was from home, and putting it into my wife's 
hands, the length of it effectually broke her heart. 
[ searched the whole stall after she was dead for 
money, but she had hidden it so eirectually, that 
with all my pains I could never find a farthing." 

By this time my shoe was mended, and satisfy- 
ing the poor artist for his trouble, and rewarding 
him besides for his information, I took my leave, 
and returned home to lengthen out the amusement 
his conversation afforded, by communicating it to 
my friend. Adieu. 



LETTER LXVI. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow. 

Generosity properly applied will supply every 
other external advantage in life, but the love of 
those we converse with : it will procure esteem, and 
a conduct resembling real affection; but actual 
love is the spontaneous production of the mind ; no 
generosity can purchase, no rewards increase, nor 
no liberality continue it : the very person who is 
obliged, has it not in his power to force his lin- 
gering affections upon the object he should love, 
and voluntarily mix passion with gratitude. 

Imparted fortune, and well-placed liberality, may 
procure the benefactor good-will, may load the per- 
son obliged with the sense of the duty he lies under 
to retaliate ; this is gratitude : and simple gratitude, 
untinctured with love, is all the return an ingenu- 
ous mind can bestow for former benefits. 

But gratitude and love are almost opposite affec- 
tions; love is often an involuntary passion, placed 
upon our companions without our consent, and 
frequently conferred without our previous esteem. 
We love some men, we know not why; our ten- 
derness is naturally excited in all their concerns ; 
we excuse their faults with the same indulgence, 
and approve their virtues with the same applause 
with v/hich we consider our own. While we en- 
tertain the passion, it pleases us, we cherish it with 
delight, and give it up with reluctance ; and love 
for love is all the reward we expect or desire. 

Gratitude, on the contrary, is never conferred, 
but where there have been previous endeavours to 
excite it ; we consider it as a debt, and our spirits 



1 330 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



wear a load till we have discharged the obligation. 
Every acknowledgment of gratitude is a circum- 
stance of humiliation ; and some are found to sub- 
mit to frequent mortifications of this kind, pro- 
claiming what obligations they owe, merely be- 
cause they think it in some measure cancels the 
debt. 

Thus love is the most easy and agreeable, and 
gratitude the most humiliating affection of the 
mind : we never reflect on the man we love, with- 
out exulting in our choice, while he who has bound 
us to him by benefits alone, rises to our idea as a 
person to whom we have in some measure forfeited 
our freedom. Love and gratitude are seldom there- 
fore found in the same breast without impairing 
each other; we may tender the one or the other 
sintrly to those we converse with, but can not com- 
mand both together. By attempting to increase, 
we diminish them; the mind becomes bankrupt 
under too large obligations ; all additional benefits 
lessen every hope of future return, and bar up 
every avenue that leads to tenderness. 

In all our connexions with society, therefore, it 
is not only generous, but prudent, to appear insen- 
sible of the value of those favours we bestow, and 
endeavour to make the obligation seem as slight as 
possible. Love must be taken by stratagem, and 
not by open force : we should seem ignorant that 
we oblige, and leave the mind at full liberty to give 
or refuse its affections; for constraint may indeed 
leave the receiver still grateful, but it will certainly 
produce disgust. 

If to procure gratitude be our only aim, there is 
no great art in making the acquisition ; a benefit 
conferred demands a just acknowledgment, and we 
have a right to insist upon our due. 

But it were much more prudent to forego our 
right on such an occasion, and exchange it, if we 
can, for love. We receive but little advantage from 
repeated protestations of gratitude, but they cost 
him very much from whom we exact them in re- 
turn : exacting a grateful acknowledgment, is de- 
manding a debt by which the creditor is not ad- 
vantaged, and the debtor pays with reluctance. 

As Mencius the philosopher was travelling in 
pursuit of wisdom, night overtook him at the foot 
of a gloomy mountain remote from the habitations 
of men. Here, as he was straying, while rain and 
thunder conspired to make solitude still more hide- 
ous, he perceived a hermit's cell, and approaching, 
asked for shelter : " Enter," cries the hermit, in a 
severe tone, " men deserve not to be obliged, but it 
would be imitating their ingratitude to treat them 
as they deserve. Come in : examples of vice may 
sometimes strengthen us in the waj's of virtue." 

After a frugal meal, which consisted of roots and 
tea, Mencius could not repress his curiosity to 
know why the hermit had retired from mankind, 
the actions of whom taught the truest lessons of 



wisdom. " Mention not the name of man," cries 
the hermit with indignation ; " here let me live re- 
tired from a base ungrateful world ; here among 
the beasts of the forest I shall find no flatterers : 
the lion is a generous enemy, and the dog a faithful 
friend ; but man, base man, can poison the bowl, 
and smile while he presents it!" — " You have been 
used ill by mankind," interrupted the philosopher 
shrewdly. " Yes," returned the hermit, "on man- 
kind I have exhausted my whole fortune, and this 
staff, and that cup, and those roots, are all that I 
have in return." — " Did you bestow your fortune, 
or did you only lend if?" returned Mencius. "I 
bestowed it undoubtedly," replied the other, "for 
where were the merit of being a money-lender?" — 
" Did they ever own that they received it?" still 
adds the philosopher. "A thousand times," cries 
the hermit ; " they every day loaded me with pro- 
fessions of gratitude for obligations received, and 
solicitations for future favours." — " If, then," says 
Mencius smiling, "you did not lend your fortune 
in order to have it returned, it is unjust to accuse 
them of ingratitude ; they owned themselves obliged, 
you expected no more, and they certainly earned 
each favour by frequently acknowledging the obli- 
gation." The hermit was struck with the reply, 
and surveying his guest with emotion, — " I have 
heard of the great Mencius, and you certainly are 
the man : I am now fourscore 3'ears old, but stUl a 
child in wisdom ; take me back to the school of man, 
and educate me as one of the most ignorant and 
the youngest of your disciples!" 

Indeed, my son, it is better to have friends in our 
passage through life than grateful dependants ; and 
as love is a more willing, so it is a more lasting 
tribute than extorted obligation. As we are uneasy 
when greatly obliged, gratitude once refused can 
never after be recovered : the mind that is base 
enough to disallow the just return, instead of feel- 
ing any uneasiness upon recollection, triumphs in 
its new-acquired freedom, and in some measure is 
pleased with conscious baseness. 

Very different is the situation of disagreeing 
friends ; their separation produces mutual uneasi- 
ness : like that divided being in fabulous creation, 
their sympathetic souls once more desire their for- 
mer union ; the joys of both are imperfect ; their 
gayest moments tinctured with uneasiness ; each 
seeks for the smallest concessions to clear the way 
to a wished-for explanation ; the most trifling ac- 
knowledgment, the slightest accident, serves to ef- 
fect a mutual reconciliation. 

But instead of pursuing the thought, permit me 
to soften the severity of advice, by a European 
story, which will fully illustrate my meaning. 

A fiddler and his wife, who had rubbed through 
life, as most couples usually do, sometimes good 
friends, at others not quite so well, one day hap- 
pened to have a dispute, which was conducted with 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



331 



becoming spirit on both sides. The wife was sure 
she was right, and the husband was resolved to 
have his own way. What was to be done in such 
a easel the quarrel grew worse by explanations, 
and at last the fury of both rose to such a pitch, 
that they made a vow never to sleep together in 
the same bed for the future. This was the most 
rash vow that could be imagined, for they still were 
friends at bottom, and. besides, they had but one 
bed in the house: however, resolved they were to 
go through with it, and at night the fiddle-case was 
laid in bed between them, in order to make a 
separation. In this manner they continued for 
three weeks; every night the fiddle-case being 
placed as a barrier to divide them. 

By this time, however, each heartily repented of 
their vow, their resentment was at an end, and 
their love began to return ; they wished the fiddle- 
case away, but both had too much spirit to begin. 
One night, however, as they were both lying awake 
with the detested fiddle-case between them, the 
husband happened to sneeze, to which the wife, as 
is usual in such cases, bid God bless him : " Ay 
but," returns the husband, "woman, do you say 
that from your heart? " " Indeed I do, my poor 
Nicholas," cries his wife ; "I say it with all my 
heart." " If so, then," says the husband, "we had 
as good remove the fiddle-case." 



LETTER LXVII. 



From the Same. 



Books, my son, while they teach us to respect 
the interests of others, often make us unmindful of 
our own ; while they instruct the youthful reader 
to grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in 
detail, and, attentive to universal harmony, often 
forgets that he himself has a part to sustain in the 
concert. I dislilve therefore the philosopher who 
describes the inconveniencies of life in such pleas- 
ing colours that the pupil grows enamoured of dis- 
tress, longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it 
without dread, nor fears its inconveniencies till he 
severely feels them. 

A youth who had thus spent his life among 
books, new to the world, and unacquainted with 
man but by philosophic information, may be con- 
sidered as a being whose mind is filled with the 
vulifar errors of the wise ; utterly unqualified for a 
journey tlirough life, yet confident of his own skill 
in the direction, he sets out with confidence, 
blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last 
(undone. 

He first has learned from books, and then lays 
it down as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous 
or vicious In excess ; and he has been long taught 
todetest vice, and love virtue : warm, therefore, in 



attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats 
every creature as a friend or foe ; expects from those 
he loves unerring integrity, and consigns his ene- 
mies to the reproach of wanting every virtue. On 
this principle he proceeds ; and here begin his dis- 
appointments. Upon a closer inspection of human 
nature he perceives, that he should have moderated 
his friendship, and softened his severity; for he 
often finds the excellencies of one part bf mankind 
clouded with vice, and the faults of the other 
brightened with virtue ; he finds no character so 
sanctified that has not its failings, none so infamous 
but has somewhat to attract our esteem : he beholds 
impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters. 

He now, therefore, but too late, perceives that 
his regards should have been more cool, and his 
hatred less violent; that the truly wise seldom 
court romantic friendships with the good, and 
avoid, if possible, the resentment even of the wick- 
ed : every moment gives him fresh instances that 
the bonds of friendship are broken if drawn too 
closely, and that those whom he has treated with 
disrespect more than retaliate the injury ; at length, 
therefore, he is obliged to confess, that he has de- 
clared war upon the vicious half of mankind, with- 
out being able to form an alliance among the vir- 
tuous to espouse his quarrel. 

Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now 
too far advanced to recede ; and though poverty be 
the just consequence of the many enemies his con- 
duct has created, yet he is resolved to meet it with- 
out shrinking. Philosophers have described poverty 
in most charming colours, and even his vanity is 
touched in thinking, that he shall show the world, 
in himself, one more example of patience, fortitude, 
and resignation. " Come, then, O Poverty ! for 
what is there in thee dreadful to the Wise? Tem- 
perance, Health, and Frugality walk in thy train ; 
Cheerfulness and Liberty are ever thy companions. 
Shall any be ashamed of thee, of whom Cincin- 
natus was not ashamed? The running brook, the 
herbs of the field, can amply satisfy nature ; man 
wants but little, nor that little long.* Come, then, 
O Poverty ! while kings stand by, and gaze with 
admiration at the true philosopher's resignation." 

The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes 
at the call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the 
charming figure books and his warm imagination 
had painted. As when an Eastern bride, whom 
her friends and relations had long described as a 
model of perfection, pays her first visit, the longing 
bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he had never 



* Our author has repeated this thought, nearly in the sama 
words, in his Hermit: 

Then, pilgrim, turn, thy carea forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong : 
Man wants but Uttle here below, 

Nor wants that little long. 



332 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



seen before ; but instead of a countenance blazing 
•with beauty like the sun, he beholds deformity 
shooting icicles to his heart ; such appears Poverty 
to her new entertainer; all the fabric of enthusiasm 
is at once demolished, and a thousand miseries rise 
up on its ruins, while Contempt, with pointing 
jSnger, is foremost in the hideous procession. 

The poor man now finds, that he can get no 
kings to look at him while he is eating; he finds, 
that in proportion as he grows poor, the world 
turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to 
act the philosopher in all the majesty of sohtude. 
Jt might be agreeable enough to play the philoso- 
pher while we are conscious that mankind are 
^spectators ; but what signifies wearing the mask of 
•sturdy contentment, and mounting the stage of 
restraint, when not one creature will assist at the 
^exhibition! Thus is he forsaken of men, while 
his fortitude wants the satisfaction even of self-ap- 
plause; for cither he does not feel his present 
calamities, and that is natural insensibility, or he 
disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation. 

Spleen now begins to take up the man : not dis- 
tinguishing in his resentments, he regards all man- 
kind with detestation, and, commencing man-hater, 
-seeks solitude to be at liberty to rail. 

It has been said, that he who retires to solitude 
is either a beast or an angel. The censure is too 
severe, and the praise unmerited ; the discontented 
\)eing, who retires from society, is generally some 
good-natured man, who has begun life without ex- 
;.j)erience, and knew not how to gain it in his in- 
itercourse with mankind. Adieu, 



LETTER LXVIII. 

From lien CM Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

I FORMERLY acquainted thee, most grave Fum, 
with the excellence of the English in the art of 
healing. The Chinese boast their skill in pulses, 
the Siamese their botanical knowledge, but the 
Enghsh advertising physicians alone, of being the 
great restorers of health, the dispensers of youth, 
and the insurers of longevity. I can never enough 
admire the sagacity of this country for the en- 
couragement given to the professors of this art : 
with what indulgence does she foster up those of 
her ov/n growth, and kindly cherish those that 
come from abroad! Like a skilful gardener, she 
invites them from every foreign climate to herself. 
Here every great exotic strikes root as soon as im- 
ported, and feels the genial beam of favour; while 
the mighty metropolis, like one vast munificent 
dunghill, receives them indiscriminately to her 
breast, and supplies each with more than native 
nourishment. 



In other countries, the physician pretends to 
cure disorders in the lump ; the same doctor who 
combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend to pre- 
scribe for a pain in the head, and he who at one 
time cures a consumption, shall at another give 
drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and ridiculous! 
this is being a mere jack-of-all-trades. Is the ani- 
mal machine less complicated than a brass pinl 
Not less than ten different hands are required to 
make a pin ; and shall the body be set right by one 
single operator? 

The English are sensible of the force of this 
reasoning ; they have, therefore, one doctor for the 
eyes, another for the toes ; they have their sciatica 
doctors, and inoculating doctors; they have one 
doctor who is modestly content with securing them 
from bug-bites, and five hundred who prescribe for 
the bite of mad dogs. 

The learned are not here retired, with vicious 
modesty, from public view; for every dead wall is 
covered with their names, their abilities, their 
amazing cures, and places of abode. Few patients 
can escape falhng into their hands, unless blasted 
by lightning, or struck dead with some sudden dis- 
order. It may sometimes happen, that a stranger 
who does not understand English, or a country- 
man who can not read, dies, without ever hearing 
of the vivifying drops, or restorative electuary; 
but, for my part, before I was a v/eek in town, I 
had learned to bid the whole catalogue of disorders 
defiance, and was perfectly acquainted with the 
names and the medicines of every great man, or 
great woman of them all. 

But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anec- 
dotes of the great, however minute or trifling, I 
must present you, inadequate as my abilities are to 
the subject, with some account of those personages 
who lead in this honourable profession. 

The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard 
Rock, P. U. N. This great man, short of stature, 
is fat, and waddles as he walks. He always wears 
a white three-tailed wig, nicely combed, and friz- 
zed upon each cheek, sometimes he carries a cane, 
but a hat never. It is indeed very remarkable, that 
this extraordinary personage should never wear a 
hat, but so it is, he never wears a hat. He is 
usually drawn at the top of his own bills, sitting in 
his arm chair, holding a little bottle between his 
finger and thumb, and surrounded with rotten 
teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and gallipots. No 
man can promise fairer nor better than he ; for, as 
he observes, "Be your disorder never so far gone, 
be under no uneasiness, make j^ourself quite easy; 
I can cure you." 

The next in fame, though by some reckoned of 
equal pretensions, is Doctor Timothy Franks, F. 
O. G. H., living in a place called the Old Bailey. 
As Rock is remarkably squab, his great rival 
Flanks is as remarkably tall. He was born in the 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 



333 



year of the Christian era, 1692, and is, while I now 
write, exactly sixty-eight years, three months and 
four days old. Age, however, has no way impair- 
ed his usual health and vivacity : I am told, he 
generally walks with his breast open. This gen- 
tleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is particularly 
remarkable for a becoming assurance, which carries 
him gently through Ufe; for, except Dr. Rock, none 
are more blessed with the advantages of face tlw 
Doctor Franks. 

And yet the great have their foibles as well as 
the little. I am almost ashamed to mention it : let 
the foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I must 
impart the whole to my friend. These two great 
men are actually now at variance : yes, my dear 
Fum Hoam, by the head of our grandfather, they 
are now at variance like mere men, mere common 
mortals. Tho champion Rock advises the world 
to beware of bog-trotting quacks, while Franks re 
torts the wit and the sarcasm (for they have both a 
world of wit) by fixing on his rival the odious ap- 
pellation of Dumplin Dick. He calls the serious 
Doctor Rock, Dumplin Dick! Head of Confucius, 
what profanation! Dumplin Dick! What a pity, 
ye powers, that the learned, who were born mutu- 
ally to assist in enlightening the world, should 
thus differ among themselves, and make even the 
profession ridiculous ! Sure the world is wide 
enough, at least, for two gHat personages to figure 
in : men of science should leave controversy to 
the little world below them ; and then we might 
see Rock and Franks walking together hand in 
hand, smiling onward to immortalitj^. 

Next to these is Doctor Walker, preparator of 
his own medicines. This gentleman is remarkable 
for an aversion to quacks ; frequently cautioning 
the public to be careful into what hands they com- 
mit their safety: by which he would insinuate, 
that if they did not employ him alone, they must 
be undone. His public spirit is equal to his suc- 
cess. Not for himself, but his country, is the 
gallipot prepared, and the drops sealed up with 
proper directions, for any part of the town or coun- 
try. All this is for his country's good ; so that he 
is now grown old in the practice of physic and vir- 
tue; and, to use his own elegance of expression, 
" There is not such another medicine as his in the 
world again." 

This, my friend, is a formidable triumvirate; 
and j'et, formidable as they are, I am resolved to 
defend the honour of Chinese physic against them 
all. I have made a vow to summon Doctor Rock 
to a solemn disputation in all the mysteries of the 
profession, before the face of every philomath, stu- 
dent in astrology, and member of the learned socie- 
ties. I adhere to and venerate the doctrines of old 
Wang-shu-ho. In the very teeth of opposition I 
will maintain, " That the heart is the son of the 
liver, which has the kidneys for its mother, and the 



stomach for its wife."* I have, therefore, drawn 
up a disputation challenge, which is to be sent 
speedily, to this effect : 

" I, Lien Chi Altangi, 5D. N. 3^. ^. native 
of Honan in China, to Richard Rock, F. U. N. 
native of Garbage-alley, in Wapping, defiance. 
Though, sir, I am perfectly sensible of your im- 
portance, though no stranger to your studies in the 
path of nature, yet there may be many things in 
the art of physic with which you are yet unac- 
quainted. I know full well a doctor thou art, great 
Rock, and so am I. W^herefore, I challenge, and 
do hereby invite you to a trial of learning upon hard 
problems, and knotty physical points. In this de- 
bate we will calmly investigate the whole theory 
and practice of medicine, botany and chemistry ; 
and I invite all the philomaths, with many of the 
lecturers in medicine to be present at the dispute; 
which, I hope, will be carried on with due deco- 
rum, with proper gravity, and as befits men of 
erudition and science among each other. But be- 
fore we meet face to face, I would thus publicly, 
and in the face of the whole world, desire you to 
answer me one question ; I ask it with the same 
earnestness with which you have often solicited the 
pubUc; answer me, I say, at once, without having 
recourse to your physical dictionary, which of those 
three disorders, incident to the human body, is the 
most fatal, the syncope, parenthesis, or apoplexy? 
I beg your reply may be as public as this my de- 
mand.t I am, as hereafter may be, your admirer, 
or rival. Adieu. 



LETTER LXIX. 



From the Same. 



Indulgent Nature seems to have exempted this 
island from many of those epidemic evils which are 
so fatal in other parts of the world. A want of 
rain but for a few days beyond the expected season 
in China spreads famine, desolation, and terror, 
over the whole country; the winds that blow from 
the brown bosom of the western desert are impreg- 
nated with death in every gale ; but in this fortu- 
nate land of Britain, the inhabitant courts health 
in every breeze, and the husbandman ever sows in 
joyful expectation. 

But though the nation be exempt from real evils, 
think not, my friend, that it is more happy on this 
account than others. They are afflicted, it is true, 
with neither famine or pestilence, but then there is 
a disorder peculiar to the country, which every 
season makes strange ravages among them; it 



• See Dii Halde, Vol. n. fol. p. 185. 

t The day after this was pubUshed the editor received an 
answer, m which the Doctor seems to be of opinion, that the 
apoplexy is most fatal. 



334 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



spreads with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost 
every rank of people ; what is still more strange, 
the natives have no name for this peculiar malady, 
though well known to foreign physicians by the 
appellation of epidemic terror. 

A season is never known to pass in which the 
people are not visited by this cruel calamity in one 
shape or another, seemingly different though ever 
the same: one year it issues from a baker's shop in 
the shape of a six-penny loaf; the next, it takes the 
appearance of a comet with a fiery tail; a third, it 
threatens like a flat-bottomed boat ; and a fourth, 
it carries consternation at the bite of a mad dog. 
The people, when once infected, lose their relish 
for happiness, saunter about with looks of despond- 
ence, ask after the calamities of the day, and re- 
ceive no comfort but in heightening each other's 
distress. It is insignificant how remote or near, 
how weak or powerful the object of terror may be; 
when once they resolve to fright and be frighted, 
the merest trifles sow consternation and dismay ; 
each proportions his fears, not to the object, but to 
the dread he discovers in the countenance of others ; 
for when once the fermentation is begun, it goes 
on of itself, though the original cause be discon- 
tinued which first set it in motion. 

A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror 
which now prevails; and the whole nation is at 
present actually groaning under the malignity of 
its influence. The people sally from their houses 
with that circumspection which is prudent in such 
as expect a mad dog at every turning. The phy- 
sician publishes his prescription, the beadle pre- 
pares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery arm 
themselves with boots and buif gloves, in order to 
face the enemy if he should ofl'er to attack them. 
In short, the whole people stand bravely upon their 
defence, and seem, by their present spirit, to show 
a resolution of not being tamely bit by mad dogs 
any longer. 

Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad 
or no, somewhat resembles the ancient European 
custom of trying witches. The old woman sus- 
pected was tied hand and foot, and thrown into the 
water. If she swam, then she was instantly car- 
ried oflf to be burnt for a witch ; if she sunk, then 
indeed she was acquitted of the charge, but drown- 
ed in the experiment. In the same manner a 
crowd gathers round a dog suspected of madness, 
and they begin by teasing the devoted animal on 
every side; if he attempts to stand upon the de- 
fensive and bite, then is he unanimously found 
guilty, for a mad dog always snaps at every thing ; 
if, on the contrary, he strives to escape by running 
away, then he can expect no compassion, for mad 
dogs always run straight forward before them. 

It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, 
who has no share in these ideal calamities, to mark 
the stages of this national disease. The terror at 



first feebly enters with a disregarded story of a little 
dog, that had gone through a neighbouring village, 
that was thought to be mad by several that had 
seen him. The next account comes, that a mas- 
tiff ran through a certain town, and had bit five 
geese, which immediately ran mad, foamed at the 
bill, and died in great agonies soon after. Then 
comes an affecting history of a little boy bit in the 
leg, and gone down to be dipped in the salt water. 
When the people have sufficiently shuddered at 
that, they are next congealed with a frightful ac- 
count of a man who was said lately to have died 
from a bite he had received some years before. 
This relation only prepares the way for another, 
still more hideous, as how the master of a family, 
with seven small children, were all bit by a mad 
lapdog ; and how the poor father first perceived the 
infection, by calling for a draught of water, where 
he saw the lapdog swimming in the cup. 

When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every 
morning comes loaded with some new disaster : as, 
in stories of ghosts, each loves to hear the account, 
though it only serves to make him uneasy, so here 
each listens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings 
new circumstances of peculiar horror. A lady, for 
instance, in the country, of very weak nerves, has 
been frighted by the barking of a dog ; and this, 
alas ! too frequently happens. This story soon is 
improved and spreads, tbpit a mad dog had frighted 
a lady of distinction. These circumstances begin 
to grow terrible before they have reached the neigh- 
bouring village, and there the report is, that a lady 
of quality was bit by a mad mastiff. The account 
every moment gathers new strength, and grows 
more dismal as it approaches the capitol ; and by 
the time it has arrived in town, the lady is describ- 
ed with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running mad 
upon all fours, barking like a dog, biting her ser- 
vants, and at last smothered between two beds by 
the advice of her doctors ; while the mad mastiff is 
in the mean time ranging the whole country over, 
slavering at the mouth, and seeking whom he may 
devour. 

My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little 
credulous, waked me some mornings ago before 
the usual hour, with horror and astonishment in 
her looks ; she desired me, if I had any regard for 
my safety, to keep within ; for a few days ago so 
dismal an accident had happened, as to put all the 
world upon their guard. A mad dog, down in the 
countr}"-, she assured me, had bit a farmer, who, 
soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard, and bit 
a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly became as 
mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and 
raising herself up, walked about on her hind legs, 
sometimes barking like a dog, and sometimes at- 
tempting to talk like the farmer. Upon examin- 
ing the grounds of this story, I found my landlady 
had it from one neighbour, who had it from another 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



335 



neighbour, who heard it from very good au- 
thority. 

Were most stories of this nature thoroug'hly ex- 
amined, it would be found that numbers of such as 
have been said to suifer were no way injured; and 
that of those who have been actually bitten, not 
one in a hundred was bit by a mad dog. Such ac- 
counts, in general, therefore, only serve to make 
the people miserable by false terrors, and some- 
times fright the patient into actual phrenzy, by 
creating those very symptoms they pretended to 
deplore. 

But even allowing three orfourto die in a season 
of this terrible death (and four is probably too large 
a concession), yet still it is not considered, how 
many are preserved in their health and in their 
property by this devoted animal's services. The 
midnight robber is kept at a distance; the insidi- 
ous thief is often detected ; the healthful chase re- 
pairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor man 
finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to lessen 
his toil, and content with the smallest retribution. 

"A dog," says one of the English poets, "is an 
honest creature, and I am a friend to dogs." Of 
all the beasts that graze the lawn or hunt the for- 
est, a dog is the only animal that, leaving his fel- 
lows, attempts to cultivate the friendship of man ; 
to man he looks in all his necessities with a speak- 
ing eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the little 
service in his power with cheerfulness and plea- 
sure : for him bears famine and fatigue with pa- 
tience and resignation; no injuries can abate his 
fidelity; no distress induce him to forsake his 
benefactor; studious to please, and fearing to 
offend, he is still an humble, steadfast depen- 
dant; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. 
How unkind then to torture this faithful creature, 
who has left the forest to claim the protection of 
man ! how ungrateful a return to the trusty ani- 
mal for all his services ! Adieu. 



LETTER LXX. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow. 

The Europeans are themselves blind, who de- 
scribe Fortune without sight. No first-rate beauty 
ever had finer eyes, or saw more clearly ; they who 
have no other trade but seeking their fortune, need 
never hope to find her; coquette like, she flies 
from her close pursuers, and at last fixes on the 
plodding mechanic, who stays at home and minds 
his business. 

I am amazed how men can call her blind, when, 
by the company she keeps, she seems so very dis- 
cerning. Wherever you see a gaming-table, he 
very sure Fortune is not there ; wherever you see 
a house with the doors open, be very sure Fortune 
is not there ; when you see a man whose pocket- 
holes are laced with gold, be satisfied Fortune is 



not there ; wherever you see a beautiful woman 
good-natured and obliging, be convinced Fortune 
is never there, In short, she is ever seen accom- 
panying industry, and as often trundling a wheel- 
barrow as lolling in a coach and six. 

If you would make Fortune your friend, or, to 
personize her no longer, if you desire, my son, to 
be rich, and have money, be more eager to save 
than acquire : when people say. Money is to be got 
here, and money is to he got there, take no notice ; 
mind your own business; stay where you are, and 
secure all you can get, without stirring. When 
you hear that your neighbour has picked up a purse 
of gold in the street, never run out into the same 
street, looking about you in order to pick up such 
another; or when you are informed that he has 
made a fortune in one branch of business, never 
change your own in order to be his rival. Do not 
desire to be rich all at once; but patiently add 
farthing to farthing. Perhaps you despise the 
petty sum ; and yet they who want a farthing, and 
have no friend that will lend them it, think farth- 
ings very good things. Wliang, the foolish miller, 
when he wanted a farthing in his distress, found 
that no friend would lend, because they knew he 
wanted. Did you ever read the story of Whang, 
in our books of Chinese learning! he who, de- 
spising small sums, and grasping at all, lost even 
what he had. 

IVhang, the miller, was naturally avaricious; 
nobody loved money better than he, or more re- 
spected those that had it. When people would 
talk of a rich man in company. Whang would say, 
I know him very well ; he and I have been long 
acquainted ; he and 1 are intimate ; he stood for a 
child of mine : but if ever a poor man was men- 
tioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man ; 
he might be very well for aught he knew : but he 
was not fond of many acquaintances, and loved to 
choose his company. 

IVhang, however, with all his eagerness for 
riches, was in reality poor ; he had nothing but 
the profits of his mill to support him ; hut though 
these were small they were certain ; while his mill 
stood and went, he was sure of eating, and his fru- 
gality was such, that he every day laid some mo- 
ney by, which he would at intervals count and 
contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet still his 
acquisitions were not equal to his desires ; he only 
found himself above want, whereas he desired to 
be possessed of affluence. 

One day as he was indulging these wishes, he 
was informed, that a neighbour of his had found a 
pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it 
three nights running before. These tidings were 
daggers to the heart of poor Whang. " Here am 
I," says he, " toihng and moiling from morning till 
night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbour 
Hunks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams hinb 



336 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



self into thousands before morning. O that I 
could dream like him! with what pleasure would I 
dig round the pan; how slily would I carry it 
home ; not even my wife should see me ; and then, 
O the pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap 
of gold up to the elbow !" 

Such reflections only served to make the miller 
unhappy; he discontinued his former assiduity, he 
was quite disgusted with small gains, and his cus- 
tomers began to forsake him. Every day he re- 
peated the wish, and every night laid himself down 
in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time 
unlund, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his 
distresses and indulged him with the wished-for 
vision. He dreamed, that under a certain part of 
the foundation of his mill, there was concealed a 
monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep 
in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone. 
He rose up, thanked the stars, that were at last 
pleased to take pity on his sufl'erings, and conceal- 
ed his good luck from every person, as is usual in 
money dreams, in order to have the vision repeated 
the two succeeding nights, by which he should be 
certain of its veracity. His wishes in this also 
were answered ; he still dreamed of the same pan 
of money, in the very same place. 

Now, therefore, it was past a doubt ; so getting 
up early the third morning, he repairs alone, with 
a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and began to 
undermine that part of the wall which the vision 
directed. The first omen of success that he met 
was a broken mug ; digging still deeper, he turns 
up a house tile, quite new and entire. At last, 
after much digging, he came to the broad flat stone, 
but then so large, that it was beyond one man's 
strength to remove it. " Here," cried he in rap- 
tures to himself, " here it is ! under this stone there 
is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed ! 1 
must e'en go home to my wife, and tell her the 
whole afl!air, and get her to assist me in turning it 
up." Away therefore he goes, and acquaints his 
wife with every circumstance of their good fortune. 
Her raptures on this occasion easily may be ima- 
gined ; she flew round his neck, and embraced him 
in an agony of joy ; but those transports, however, 
did not delay their eagerness to know the exact 
sum; returning, therefore, speedily together to the 
place where Whang had been digging, there they 
found — not indeed the expected treasure, but the 
mill, their only support, undermined and fallen. 
Adieu. 



LETTER LXXL 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

The people of London are as fond of walking as 
our friends at Pekin of riding ; one of the princi- 



pal entertainments of the citizens here in summer, 
is to repair about nightfall to a garden not far from 
town, where they walk about, show their best 
clothes and best faces, and listen to a concert pro- 
vided for the occasion. 

I accepted an invitation a few evenings ago from 
my old friend, the man in black, to be one of a 
party that was to sup there ; and at the appointed 
hour waited upon him at his lodgings. There I 
found the company assembled and expecting my 
arrival. Our party consisted of my friend in su- 
perlative finery, his stockings rolled, a black velvet 
waistcoat which was formerly new, and a gray wig 
combed down in imitation of hair ; a pawnbroker's 
widow, of whom, by the by, my friend was a pro- 
fessed admirer, dressec^ out in green damask, with 
three gold rings on every finger ; and Mr. Tibbs, 
the second-rate beau I have formerly described, tO' 
gether with his lady, in flimsy silk, dirty gauze in- 
stead of linen, and a hat as big as an umbrella. 

Otir first difficulty was in settling how we should 
set out. Pvlrs. Tibbs had a natural aversion to the 
water, and the widow being a little in flesh, as 
warmly protested against walking : a coach was 
therefore agreed upon ; which being too small to 
carry five, Mr. Tibbs consented to sit in his wife's 
lap. 

In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being 
entertained by the way with the bodings of Mr. 
Tibbs, who assured us he did not expect to see a 
single creature for the evening above the degree of 
a cheesemonger : that this was the last night of 
the gardens, and that consequently we should be 
pestered with the nobility and gentry from Thames- 
street and Crooked- lane, with 'several other pro- 
phetic ejaculations, probably inspired by the un- 
easiness of his situation. 

The illuminations began before we arrived, and 
I must confess, that upon entering the gardens I 
found every sense overpaid with more than ex- 
pected pleasure; the lights every where ghmmering 
through the scarcely moving trees, the full-bodied 
concert bursting on the stillness of the night, the 
natural concert of the birds, in the more retired part 
of the grove, vieing with that which was formed by 
art ; the company gaily dressed, looking satisfac- 
tion, and the tables spread with various delicacies, 
all conspired to fill my imagination with the vision- 
ary happiness of the Arabian lawgiver, and lifted 
me into an ecstasy of admiration. " Head of Con- 
fucius!" cried I to my friend, "this is fine! this 
unites rural beauty with courtly magnificence! if 
we except the virgins of immortality, that hang on 
every tree, and may be plucked at every desire, I 
do not see how this falls short of Mahomet's Para- 
dise!" "As for virgins," cries my friend, "it is 
true they are a fruit that do not much abound in 
our gardens here ; but if ladies, as plenty as apples 
in autumn, and as complying as any houri of them 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



337 



all, can content you, I fancy we have no need to go 
to heaven for Paradise." 

I was going to second his remarks, when we 
were called to a consultation by Mr. Tibbs and the 
rest of the company, to know in what manner we 
were to lay out the evening to the greatest advan- 
tage. Mrs. Tibbs was for keeping the genteel walk 
of the garden, where, she observed, there was al- 
ways the very best company; the widow, on the 
contrary, who came but once a season, was for se- 
curing a good standing place to see the water-works, 
which she assured us would begin in less than an 
hour at farthest ; a dispute therefore began, and as 
it was managed between two of very opposite cha- 
racters, it threatened to grow more bitter at every 
reply. Mrs. Tibbs woncjered how people could 
pretend to know the polite world, who had received 
all their rudiments of breeding behind a counter ; 
to which the other replied, that though some people 
sat behind counters, yet they could sit at the head 
of their own tables too, and carve three good dishes 
of hot meat whenever they thought proper; which 
was more than some people could say for them- 
selves, that hardly knew a rabbit and onions from 
a green goose and gooseberries. 

It is hard to say where this might have ended, 
had not the husband, who probably knew the im- 
petuosity of his wife's disposition, proposed to end 
the dispute, by adjourning to a box, and try if there 
was any thing to be had for supper that was sup- 
portable. To this we all consented : but here a 
new distress arose ; Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs would sit 
in none but a genteel box, a box where they might 
see and be seen, one, as they expressed it, in the 
very focus of public view; but such a box was not 
easy to be obtained, for though we were perfectly 
convinced of our own gentility, and the gentility 
of our appearance, yet we found it a difficult matter 
to persuade the keepers of the boxes to be of our 
opinion ; they chose to reserve genteel boxes for 
what they judged more genteel company. 

At last, however, we were fixed, though some- 
what obscurely, and supplied with the usual enter- 
tainment of the place. The widow found the sup- 
per excellent, but Mrs. Tibbs thought every thing 
detestable. "Come, come, my dear," cries the 
husband, byway of consolation, "to be sure we 
can't find such dresssing here as we have at Lord 
Crump's, or Lady Crimp's; but for Vauxhall dress- 
ing it is pretty good : it is not their victuals indeed 
1 find fault with, but their wine; their wine," cries 
he, drinldng off a glass, "indeed, is most abomina- 
ble." 

By this last contradiction, the widow was fairlj' 
conquered in point of politeness. She perceived 
now that she had no pretensions in the world to 
taste, her very senses were vulgar, since she had 
praised detestable custard, and smacked at wretched 
wine ; she was therefore content to yield the vic- 
22 



tory, and for the rest of the night to listen and im- 
prove. It is true, she would now and then forget 
herself, and confess she was pleased, but they soon 
brought her back again to miserable refinement. 
She once praised the painting of the box in which 
we were sitting, but was soon convinced that such 
paltry pieces ought rather to excite horror than 
satisfaction : she ventured again to commend one 
of the singers, but Mrs. Tibbs soon let her know, 
in the style of a connoisseur, that the singer in 
question had neither ear, voice, nor judgment. 

Mr. Tibbs, now willing to prove that his wife's 
pretensions to music were just, entreated her to fa- 
vour the company with a song; but to this she gave 
a positive denial — "for you know very well, my 
dear," says she, "that I am not in voice to-day, 
and Vt'hen one's voice is not equal to one's judg- 
ment, what signifies singing? besides, as there is 
no accompaniment, it would be but spoiling music." 
All these excuses, however, were overruled by the 
rest of the company, who^ though one would think 
they already had music enough, joined in the en- 
treaty. But particularly the widow, now willing 
to convince the company of her breeding, pressed 
so warmly, that she seemed determined to take no 
refusal. At last then the lady complied, and after 
humming for some minutes, began with such a 
voice, and such affectation, as I could perceive gave 
but little satisfaction to any except her husband. 
He sat with rapture in his eye, and beat time with 
his hand on the table. 

You must observe, my friend, that it is the cus- 
tom of this country, when a lady or gentleman 
happens to sing, for the company to sit as mute 
and motionless as statues. Every feature, every 
limb, must seem to correspond in fixed attention ; 
and while the song continues, they are to remain 
in a state of universal petrifaction. In this morti- 
fying situation we had continued for some time, 
listening to the song, and looking with tranquillity, 
when the master of the box came to inform us, that 
the water-works were going to begin. At this in- 
formation I could instantly perceive the widow 
bounce from her seat ; but correcting herself, she 
sat down again, repressed by motives of good- 
breeding. Mrs. Tibbs, who had seen the water- 
works a hundred times, resolving not to be inter- 
rupted, continued her song without any share of 
mercy, nor had the smallest pity on our impatience. 
The widow's face, I own, gave me high entertain- 
ment ; in it I could plainly read the struggle she felt 
between good-breeding and curiosity: she talked 
of the water-works the whole evening before, and 
seemed to have come merely in order to see them ; 
but then she could not bounce out in the very mid- 
dle of a song, for that would be forfeiting all pre- 
tensions to high life, or high-lived company, ever 
after. Mrs. Tibbs therefore kept on singing, and 
we continued to listen, till at last, when the song 



338 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



•was just concluded, the waiter came to inform us 
that the water-works were over. 

"The water-works over!" cried the widow; 
" the water-works over already ! that's impossible ! 
they can't be over so soon !" — " It is not my busi- 
ness," replied the fellow, "to contradict your lady- 
ship; I'll run again and see." He went, and soon 
returned with a confirmation of the dismal tidings. 
No ceremony could now bind my friend's disap- 
pointed mistress, she testified her displeasure in 
the openest manner ; in short, she now began to 
find fault in turn, and at last insisted upon going 
home, just at the time that Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs 
assured the company, that the polite hours were 
going to begin, and that the ladies would instan- 
taneously be entertained with the horns. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXII. 



For the Same. 



Not far from this city lives a poor tinker, who 
has educated seven sons, all at this very time in 
arms, and fighting for their country ; and what re- 
ward do you think has the tinker from the state 
for such important services? None in the world : 
his sons, when the war is over, may probably be 
whipped from parish to parish as vagabonds, and 
the old man, when past labour, may die a prisoner 
in some house of correction. 

Such a worthy subject in China would be held 
in universal reverence ; his services would be re- 
warded, if not with dignities, at least with an ex- 
emption from labour ; he would take the left hand 
at feasts, and mandarines themselves would be 
proud to show their submission. The Enghsh 
laws punish vice; the Chinese laws do more, they 
reward virtue ! 

Considering the little encouragement given to 
matrimony here, I am not surprised at the dis- 
couragement given to propagation. Would you 
believe it, my dear Fum Hoam, there are laws 
made which even forbid the people's marrying each 
other? By the head of Confucius, I jest not ; there 
are such laws in being here ; and yet their law- 
givers have neither been instructed among the Hot- 
tentots, nor imbibed their principles of equity from 
the natives of Anamaboo. 

There are lavi's which ordain, that no man shall 
marry a woman against her own consent. This, 
though contrary to what we are taught in Asia, 
and though in some measure a clog upon matri- 
mony, I have no great objection to. There are 
laws which ordain, that no woman shall marry 
against her father and mother's consent, unless 
arrived at an age of maturity ; by which is under- 
stood, those years when women with us are gene- 
rally past child-bearing. Tiiis must be a clog upon 



matrimony, as it is more difficult for the lover to 
please three than one, and much more difficult to 
please old people than young ones. The laws or- 
dain, that the consenting couple shall take a long 
time to consider before they marry : this is a very 
g'eat clog, because people love to have all rash ac- 
tions done in a hurry. It is ordained, that all 
marriages shall be proclaimed before celebration : 
this is a severe clog, as many are ashamed to have 
their marriage made public, from motives of vicious 
modesty, and many afraid from views of temporal 
interest. It is ordained, that there is nothing sacred 
in the ceremony, but that it may be dissolved, to 
all intents and purposes, by the authority of any 
civil magistrate. And yet, opposite to this, it is 
ordained, that the priest shall be paid a large sum 
of money for granting his sacred permission. 

Thus you see, my friend, that matrimony here 
is hedged round with so many obstructions, that 
those who are willing to break through or surmount 
them, must be contented if at last they find it a 
bed of thorns. The laws are not to blame, for 
they have deterred the people from engaging as 
much as they could. It is, indeed, become a very 
serious affair in England, and none but serious 
people are generally found willing to engage. The 
young, the gay, and the beautiful, who have mo- 
tives of passion only to induce them, are seldom 
found to embark, as those inducements are taken 
away; and none but the old, the ugly, and the 
mercenary, are seen to unite, who, if they have 
any posterity at all, will probably be an ill-favoured 
race like themselves. 

What gave rise to those laws might have been 
some such accidents as these : — It sometimes hap- 
pened that a miser, who had spent all his youth in 
scraping up money to give his daughter such a 
fortune as might get her a mandarine husband, 
found his expectations disappointed at last, by her 
running away with his footman ; this must have 
been a sad shock to the poor disconsolate parent, 
to see his poor daughter in a one-horse chaise, 
when he had designed her for a coach and six. 
What a stroke from Providence ! to see his dear 
money go to enrich a beggar ; all nature cried out^ 
at the profanation ! 

It sometimes happened also, that a lady, who had 
inherited all the titles, and all the nervous com- 
plaints of nobihty, thought fit to impair her dignity 
and mend her constitution, by marrying a farmer : 
this must have been a sad shock to her inconsolable 
relations, to see so fine a flower snatched from a 
flourishing family, and planted in a dunghill ; this 
was an absolute inversion of the first principles of 
things. 

In order, therefore, to prevent the great from be- 
ing thus contaminated by vulgar alliances, the ob- 
stacles to matrimony have been so contrived, that 
the rich only can marry amongst the rich, and the 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



339 



poor, who would leave celibacj', must be content to 
increase their poverty with a wife. Thus have 
their laws fairly inverted the inducements to matri- 
mony. Nature tells us, that beauty is the proper 
allurement of those who are rich, and money of 
those who are poor ; but things here are so con- 
trived, that the rich are invited to marry, by that 
fortune which they do not want, and the poor have 
no inducement, but that beauty which they do 
not feel. 

An equal diffusion of riches through any coun- 
try ever constitutes its happiness. Great wealth 
in the possession of one stagnates, and extreme 
poverty witli another keeps him in unambitious 
indigence ; but the moderately rich are generally 
active : not too far removed from poverty to fear its 
calamities, nor too near extreme wealth to slacken 
the nerve of labour, they remain still between both 
in a state of continual fluctuation. How impolitic, 
therefore, are those laws which promote the accu- 
mulation of wealth among the rich ; more impolitic 
still, in attempting to increase the depression on 
poverty. 

Bacon, the English philosopher, compares money 
to manure — "If gathered in heaps," says he, "it 
does no good ; on the contrary, it becomes offensive. 
But being spread, though never so thinly, over the 
surface of the earth, it enriches the whole country." 
Thus the wealth a nation possesses must expati- 
ate, or it is of no benefit to the public ; it becomes 
rather a grievance, where matrimonial laws thus 
confine it to a few. 

But this restraint upon matrimonial community, 
even considered in a physical light, is injurious. 
As those who rear up animals, take all possible 
pains to cross the strain, in order to improve the 
breed; so, in those countries where marriage is 
most free, the inhabitants are found every age to 
improve in stature and in beauty ; on the contrary, 
where it is confined to a cast, a tribe, or a horde, 
as among the Gaurs, the Jews, or the Tartars, 
each division soon assumes a family likeness, and 
every tribe degenerates into peculiar deformity. 
Hence it may be easily inferred, that if the man- 
darines here are resolved only to marry among each 
other, they will soon produce a posterity with man- 
darine faces ; and we shall see the heir of some 
honourable family scarcely equal to the abortion of 
a country farmer. 

These are a few of the obstacles to marriage 
here, and it is certain they have, in some measure, 
answered the end, for celibacy is both frequent and 
fashionable. Old bachelors appear abroad without 
a mask, and old maids, my dear Fum Hoam, have 
been absolutely known to ogle. - To confess in 
friendship, if I were an Englishman, I fancy I 
should be an old bachelor myself; 1 should never 



mistress herself upon reasonable terms; but to coint 
her father, her mother, and a long train of cousins, 
aunts, and relations, and then stand the butt of 
a whole country church ; I would as soon turn tail 
and make love to her grandmother. 

I can conceive no other reason for thus loading 
matrimony with so many prohibitions, unless it be 
that the country was thought already too populous, 
and this was found to be the most effectual means 
of thinning it. If this was the motive, I can not 
but congratulate the wise projectors on the success 
of their scheme. " Hail, O ye dim-sighted politi- 
cians, ye weeders of men ! 'Tis yours to cUp the 
wing of industry, and convert Hymen to a broker. 
'Tis yours to behold small objects with a micro- 
scopic eye, but to be blind to those which require 
an extent of vision. 'Tis yours, O ye disceruers 
of mankind! to lay the line between society, and 
weaken that force by dividing, which should bind 
with united vigour. 'Tis yours, to introduce na- 
tional real distress, in order to avoid the imaginary 
distresses of a few. Your actions can be justified 
by a hundred reasons like truth ; they can be op- 
posed by but a few reasons, and those reasons are 
true." Farewell. 



LETTER LXXIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by tlie way of Moscow. 

Age, that lessensthe enjoyment of fife, increases 
our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the 
vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume 
new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing 
as our years increase, fear becomes at last the pre- 
vailing passion of the mind ; and the small remain- 
der of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off 
our end, or provide for a continued existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to 
which even the wise are liable ! If I should judge 
of that part of hfe which lies before me, by that 
which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. 
Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have 
brought no real felicity ; and sensation assures me, 
that those I have felt are stronger than those 
which are yet to come. Yet experience and sen- 
sation in vain persuade ; hope, more powerful than 
either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied 
beauty; some happiness in long perspective still 
beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, 
every new disappointment increases my ardour to 
continue the game. 

Whence, my friend, this increased love of life, 
which grows upon us with our years? whence 
comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to pre- 
serve our existence, at a period when it becomes 



find courage to run through all the adventures pre- scarcely worth the keeping? Is it that nature, at- 
scribed by the law. I could submit to court my ; tentive to the preservation of mankind, increases 



340 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoy- 
ments ; and, as she robs the senses of every plea- 
sure, equips imagination in the spoil 7 Life would 
be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with 
infirmities, feared death no more than when in the 
vigour of manhood ; the numberless calamities of 
decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviv- 
ing every pleasure, would at once induce him, with 
his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ; 
but happily the contempt of death forsakes him, at 
a time when it could be only prejudicial; and life 
acquires an imaginary value, in proportion as its 
real value is no more. 

Our attachment to every object around us in- 
creases, in general, from the length of our acquaint- 
ance with it. " 1 would not choose," says a French 
philosopher, "to see an old post pulled up, with 
whicS I had been long acquainted." A mind long 
habituated to a certain set of objects, insensibly 
becomes fond of seeing them; visits them from 
habit, and parts from them with reluctance ; from 
hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind 
of possession. They love the world and all that 
it produces ; they love life and all its advantages ; 
not because it gives them pleasure, but because they 
have known it long. 

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of 
China, commanded that all who were unjustly de- 
tained in prison, during the preceding reigns, 
should be set free. Among the number who came 
to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there ap- 
peared a majestic old man, who, falling at the em- 
peror's feet, addressed him as follows : " Great 
father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five 
years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the 
age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned though a 
stranger to crime, or without being even confront- 
ed by my accusers. I have now lived in solitude 
and darkness for more than fifty years, and am 
grown familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with 
the splendour of that sun to which you have re- 
stored me, I have been wandering the streets to 
find some friend that would assist, or relieve, or re- 
member me ; but my friends, my family, and rela- 
tions, are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me, 
then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretched re- 
mains of life in my former prison : the v/alls of my 
dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most 
splendid palace ; I have not long to live, and shall 
be unhappy except I spend the rest of my days 
where my youth was passed — in that prison from 
which you were pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confihement is simi- 
lar to that v.'e all have for life. Yv''e are habituated 
to the prison, we look round with discontent, are 
displeased with the abode, and yet the length of 
our captivity only increases our fondness for the 
cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we 
have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all 



serve to bind us closer to earth, and embitter our 
parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaint- 
ance; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at 
once instructive and amusing ; its company pleases; 
yet, for all this, it is but little regarded. To us 
who are declined in years, life appears like an old 
friend ; its jests have been anticipated in former 
conversation ; it has no new story to make us 
smile; no new improvement with which to sur- 
prise ; yet still we love it : destitute of every enjoy- 
ment, still we love it ; husband the wasting trea- 
sure with increased frugality, and feel all the poig- 
nancy of anguish in the fatal separation. 

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sin- 
cere, brave, an Englishman. He had a complete 
fortune of his own, and the love of the king his 
master, which was equivalent to riches. Life open- 
ed all her treasure before him, and promised a long 
succession of future happiness. He came, tasted 
of the entertainment, but was disgusted even in 
the beginning. He professed an aversion to liv- 
ing ; was tired of walking round the same circle ; 
had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow 
weaker at every repetition. " If life be in youth so 
displeasing," cried he to himself, " what will it ap- 
pear when age comes on! if it be at present indif- 
ferent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought 
embittered every reflection ; till at last, with all the 
serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate 
with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man been 
apprised, that existence grows more desirable to us 
the longer we exist, he would have then faced old 
age without shrinking, he would have boldly dared 
to live, and served that society by his future assi- 
duity, which he basely injured by his desertion. 
Adieu. 



LETTER LXXIV. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

In reading the newspapers here, I have reckon- 
ed up not less than twenty-five great men, seven- 
teen very great men, and nine very extraordinary 
men, in less than the compass of half a-year. 
" These," say the gazettes, " are the men that pos- 
terity are to gaze at with admiration ; these the 
names that fame will be employed in holding up 
for the astonishment of succeeding ages." Let me 
see — forty-six great men in half a-year, amount 
just to ninety-two in a year. I wonder how pos- 
terity will be able to remember them all, or whether 
the people, in future times will have any other bu- 
siness to mind, but that of getting the catalogue by 
heart. 

Does the mayor of a corporation make a speech? 
he is instantly set down for a great man. Does a 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



341 



pedant digest his common-place book into a folio 1 
he quickly becomes great. Does a poet string up 
trite sentiments in rhyme? he also becomes the 
great man of the hour. How diminutive soever 
the object of admiration, each is followed by a 
crowd of still more diminutive admirers. The 
shout begins in his train, onward he marches to 
wards immortality, looks back at the pursuing crowd 
with self satisfaction ; catching all the oddities, the 
whimsies, the absurdities, and the littleness of con 
scious greatness, by the way. 

I was yesterday invited by a gentleman to din- 
ner, who promised that our entertainment should 
consist of a haunch of venison, a turtle, and a 
great man. I came according to appointment 
The venison was fine, the turtle good, but the great 
man insupportable. The moment I ventured to 
speak, 1 was at once contradicted ^vitli a snap. I 
attempted, by a second and a third assault, to re- 
trieve my lost reputation, but was still beat back 
with confusion. I was resolved to attack him onci 
more from intrenchment, and turned the conver- 
sation upon the government of China: but even 
here he asserted, snapped, and contradicted as be- 
fore. " Heavens," thought ], " this man pretends 
to know China even better than myself!" I look- 
ed round to see who was on my side ; but every 
eye was fixed in admiration on the great man : I 
therefore at last thought proper to sit silent, and 
act the pretty gentleman during the ensuing con- 
versation. 

When a man has once secured a circle of ad- 
mirers, he may be as ridiculous here as he thinks 
proper ; and it all passes for elevation of sentiment, 
or learned absence. If he transgresses the com- 
mon forms of breeding, mistakes even a tea-pot for 
a tobacco-box, it is said that his thoughts are fixed 
on more important objects ; to speak and to act like 
the rest of mankind, is to be no greater than they. 
There is something of oddity in the very idea of 
greatness ; for we are seldom astonished at a thing 
very much resembling ourselves. 

When the Tartars make a Lama, their first 
care is to place him in a dark corner of the tem- 
ple : here he is to sit half concealed from view, to 
regulate the motion of his hands, lips, and eyes ; 
but, above all, he is enjoined gravity and silence. 
This, however, is but the prelude to his apotheo- 
sis : a set of emissaries are despatched among the 
people, to cry up his piety, gravity, and love of 
raw flesh ; the people take them at their word, ap- 
proach the Lama, now become an idol, with the 
most humble prostration ; he receives their address- 
es without motion, commences a god, and is ever 
after fed by his priests with the spoon of immor- 
tality. The same receipt in this country serves to 
make a great man. The idol only keeps close, 
sends out his little emissaries to be hearty in his 



praise ; and straight, whether statesman or author, 
he is set down in the hst of fame, continuing to 
be praised while it is fashionable to praise, or 
while he prudently keeps his minuteness conceal- 
ed from the public. 

I have visited many countries, and have been in 
cities without number, yet never did I enter a town 
which could not produce ten or twelve of those 
little great men ; all fancying themselves known 
to the rest of the world, and complimenting each 
other upon their extensive reputation. It is amus- 
ing enough when two of those domestic prodigies 
of learning mount the stage of ceremonj"^, and give 
and take praise from each other. I have been pre- 
sent when a German doctor, for having pronounced 
a panegyric upon a certain monk, was thought the 
most ingenious man in the world : till the monk 
soon after divided this reputation by returning the 
compliment ; by which means they both marched 
oif with universal applause. 

The same degree of undeserved adulation that 
attends our great man while living often also fol- 
lows him to the tomb. It frequently happens that 
one of his little admirers sits down big with the im- 
portant subject, and is delivered of the history of 
his life and writings. This may properly be called 
the revolutions of a life between the fire-side and 
the easy-chair. 

In this we learn, the year in which he was 
born, at what an early age he gave symptoms of 
uncommon genius and application, together with 
some of his smart sayings, collected by his aunt and 
mother, while yet but a boy. The next book in- 
troduces him to the university, where we are hi- 
formed of his amazing progress in learning, his 
excellent skill in darning stockings, and his new 
invention for papering books to save the covers. 
He next makes his appearance in the republic of 
letters, and publishes his folio. Now the colossus 
is reared, his works are eagerly bought up by all 
the purchasers of scarce books. The learned so- 
cieties invite him to become a member; he dis- 
putes against some foreigner with a long Latin 
name, conquers in the controversy, is compliment- 
ed by several authors of gravity and importance, is 
excessively fond of egg-sauce with his pig, becomes 
president of a literary club, and dies in the meri- 
dian of his glory. Happy they who thus have 
some little faithful attendant, who never forsakes 
them but prepares to wrangle and to praise against 
every opposer ; at once ready to increase their pride 
while living, and their character when dead. For 
you and I, my friend, who have no humble ad- 
mirer thus to attend us, we, who neither are, nor 
ever will be, great men, and who do not much 
care whether we are great men or no, at least let 
us strive to be honest men, and to have common 
sense. Adieu. 



342 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



LETTER LXXV. 



From the Same. 



There are numbers in this city who live by 
■writing new books : and yet there are thousands of 
volumes in every large library unread and forgot- 
ten. This, upon my arrival, was one of those 
contradictions which I was unable to account for. 
" Is it possible," said I, "that there should be any 
demand for new books, before those already pub- 
lished are read ? Can there be so many employed 
in producing a commodity with which the mar- 
ket is already over-stocked : and with goods also 
better than any of modern manufacture 7" 

What at first view appeared an inconsistence, is 
e proof at once of this people's wisdom and refine- 
ment. Even allowing the works of their ances- 
tors to be better written than theirs, yet those of 
the moderns acquire a real value by being marked 
with the impression of the times. Antiquity has 
been in the possession of others ; the present is our 
own : let us first therefore learn to know what be- 
longs to ourselves, and tlicn, if we have leisure, 
cast our reflections back to the reign of Shonou, 
who governed twenty thousand years before the 
creation of the moon. 

The volumes of antiquity, like medais, may very 
well serve to amuse the curious ; but the works of 
the moderns, like the current coin of a kingdom, 
are much better for immediate use : the former are 
often prized above their intrinsic value, and kept 
with care ; the latter seldom pass for more than 
they are worth, and are often subject to the merci- 
less hands of sweating critics and clipping compi- 
lers : the works of antiquity were ever praised, 
those of the moderns read: the treasures of our 
ancestors have our esteem, and we boast the pas- 
sion: those of contemporary genius engage our 
heart, although we bliisli to own it. The visits we 
pay the former resemble those we pay the great, 
the ceremony is troublesome, and yet such as we 
would not choose to forego ; our acquaintance with 
modern books is like sitting with a friend, our 
pride is not flattered in the interview, but it gives 
more internal satisfaction. 

In proportion as society refines, new books must 
ever become more necessar}'. Savage rusticity is 
reclaimed by oral admonition alone : but the elegant 
excesses of refinement are best corrected by the 
still voice of studious inquiry. In a polite age, al- 
most every person becomes a reader, and receives 
more instruction from the press than the pulpit. 
The preaching Bonze may instruct the illiterate 
peasant ; but nothing less than the insinuating ad- 
dress of a fine writer can win its way to a heart al- 
ready relaxed in all the effeminacy of refinement. 
Books are necessary to correct the vices of the po- 
lite; bnt those vices are ever changing, and the 



antidote should be changed accordingly — should 
still be new. 

Instead, therefore, of thinking the number of 
new publications here too great, I could wish it still 
greater, as they are the most useful instruments of 
reformation. Every country must be instructed 
either by writers or preachers; but as the number 
of readers increases, the number of hearers is pro- 
portionably diminished, the writer becomes more 
useful, and the preaching Bonze less necessary. 

Instead, therefore, of complaining that writers 
are overpaid, when their works procure them a bare 
subsistence, I should imagine it the duty of a state, 
not only to encourage their numbers, but their in- 
dustry. A Bonze is rewarded with immense riches 
for instructing only a few, even of the most igno- 
rant of the people ; and sure the poor scholar should 
not beg his bread, who is capable of instructing a 
million. 

Of all rewards, I grant, the most pleasing to a 
man of real merit, is fame ; but a polite age, of all 
times, is that in which scarcely any share of merit 
can acquire it. What numbers of fine writers in 
the latter empire of Rome, when refinement was 
carried to the highest pitch, have missed that fame 
and immortality which they had fondly arrogated 
to themselves! How many Greek authors who wrote 
at that period when Constantinople was the refined 
mistress of the empire, now rest, either not print- 
ed, or not read, in the libraries of Europe! Those 
who came first, while either state as yet was bar- 
barous, carried all the reputation away. Authors, 
as the age refined, became more numerous, and 
their numbers destroyed their fame. It is but 
natural, therefore, for the writer, when conscious 
that his works will not procure him fame hereafter, 
to endeavour to make them turn out to his tem- 
poral interest here. 

Whatever be the motives which induce men to 
write, whether avarice or fame, the country be- 
comes most wise and happy, in which they most 
serve for instructors. The countries where sacer- 
dotal instruction alone is permitted, remain in ig- 
norance, superstition, and hopeless slaver}'. In En- 
gland, where there are as many new books published 
as in all the rest of Europe together, a spirit of free- 
dom and reason reigns among the people; they 
have been often known to act like fools ; they are 
generally found to think like men. 

The only danger that attends a multiplicity of 
publications is, that some of them may be calculated 
to injure rather than benefit society. But where 
writers are numerous, they also serve as a check 
upon each other; and perhaps, a literary inquisi- 
tion is the most terrible punishment that can be 
conceived to a literary transgressor. 

But to do the English justice, there are but few 
offenders of this kind ; their publications in general 
aim at mending either the heart, or improving th* 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



343 



commonweal. The dullest writer talks of virtue, 
and liberty, and benevolence, with esteem ; tells his 
true story, filled with good and wholesome advice; 
warns against slavery, bribery, or the bite of a mad 
dog; and dresses up his little useful magazine of 
knowledge and entertainment, at least with a good 
intention. The dunces of France, on the other 
hand, who have less encouragement, are more vi- 
cious. Tender hearts, languishing eyes, Leonora 
in love at thirteen, ecstatic transports, stolen blisses, 
are the frivolous subjects of their frivolous memoirs. 
In England, if an obscene blockhead thus breaks 
in on the community, he sets his whole fraternity 
in a roar ; nor can he escape, even though he should 
fly to nobility for shelter. 

Thus even dunces, my friend, may make them- 
selves useful. But there are others, whom nature 
has blessed with talents above the rest of mankind; 
men capable of thinking with precision, and im- 
pressing their thought with rapidity; beings who 
diffuse those regards upon mankind, which others 
contract and settle upon themselves. These deserve 
every honour from that community of which they 
are more peculiarly the children; to such I would 
give my heart, since to them 1 am indebted for its 
humanity! Adieu. 



LETTER LXXVI. 

JVom Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow. 

I STILL remain at Terki, where I have received 
that money which was remitted here in order to re- 
lease me from captivity. My fair companion still im- 
proves in my esteem ; the more I know her mind 
her beauty becomes more poignant ; she appears 
charming, even among the daughters of Circassia, 

Yet were I to examine her beauty with the art 
of a statuary, I should find numbers here that far 
surpass her; nature has not granted her all the 
boasted Circassian regularity of feature, and yet 
she greatly exceeds the fairest of the country in the 
art of seizing the affections. "Whence," have I 
often said to myself, " this resistless magic that at- 
tends even moderate charms? though I regard the 
beauties of the country with admiration, every in- 
terview weakens the impression, but the form of 
Zelis grows upon my imagination ; I never behold 
her without an increase of tenderness and respect. 
Whence this injustice of the mind, in preferring 
imperfect beauty to that which nature seems to have 
finished with care. Whence the infatuation, that 
he whom a comet could not amaze, should be as- 
tonished at a meteor?" When reason was thus 
fatigued to find an answer, my imagination pursu- 
ed the subject, and this was the result. 

I fancied myself placed between two landscapes, 
this called the Region of Beauty, and that the Val- 



ley of the Graces : the one adorned with all that 
luxuriant nature could bestow ; the fruits of va- 
rious climates adorned the trees, the grove resound- 
ed with music, the gale breathed perfume, every 
charm that could arise from symmetry and exact 
distribution were here conspicuous, the whole of- 
fering a prospect of pleasure without end. The 
Valley of the Graces, on the other hand, seemed by 
no means so inviting ; the streams and the groves 
appeared just as they usually do in frequented 
countries : no magnificent parterres, no concert in 
the grove, the rivulet was edged with weeds, and 
the rook joined its voice to that of the nightingale. 
All was simplicity and nature. 

The most striking objects ever first allure the 
traveller. I entered the Region of Beauty with 
increased curiosity, and promised myself endless 
satisfaction in being introduced to the presiding 
goddess. I perceived several strangers, who entered 
with the same design ; and what surprised me not 
a little, was to see several others hastening to leave 
this abode of seeming felicity. 

After some fatigue, I had at last the honour of be- 
ing introduced to the goddess who represented 
Beauty in person. She was seated on a throne, at 
the foot of which stood several strangers, lately in- 
troduced like me, all regarding her form in ecstasy. 
"Ah, what eyes! whathps! how clear her com- 
plexion ! how perfect her shape !" At these excla- 
mations, Beauty, with downcast eyes, would en- 
deavour to counterfeit modesty, but soon again 
looking round as if to confirm every spectator in 
his favourable sentiments; sometimes she would 
attempt to allure us by smiles ; and at intervals 
would bridle back, in order to inspire us with 
respect as well as tenderness. 

This ceremony lasted for some time, and had so 
much employed our eyes, that we had forgot all 
this while that the goddess was silent. We soon, 
however, began to perceive the defect. " What!" 
said we, among each other, " are we to have.nothing 
but languishing airs, soft looks, and inclinations 
of the head ; will the goddess only deign to satisfy 
our eyes?" Upon this one of the company stepped 
up to present her with some fruits he had gathered 
by the way. She received the present most sweetly 
smiling, and with one of the whitest hands in the 
world, but still not a word escaped her lips. 

I now found that my companions grew weary 
of their homage ; they went off one by one, and re- 
solving not to be left behind, I offered to go in my 
turn, when, just at the door of the temple, I was 
called back by a female, whose name was Prids, 
and who seemed displeased at the behaviour of the 
company. " Where are you hastening 1" said she 
to me with an angry air ; " the Goddess of Beauty 
is here." — " I have been to visit her, madam," re- 
plied I, "and find her more beautiful even than 
report had made her." — '■ And v\'hy then will you 



344 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



leave herT' added the female. " I have seen her 
long enough," returned I, "I have got all her fea- 
tures by heart. Her eyes are still the same. Her 
nose is a very fine one, but it is still just such a nose 
now as it was half an hour ago : could she throw a 
little more mind into her face, perhaps I should be 
for wishing to have more of her company."— 
"What signifies," replied my female, "whether 
she has a mind or not; has she any occasion for a 
mind, so formed as she is by nature ? If she had a 
common face, indeed, there might be some reason 
for thinking to improve it ; but when features are 
already perfect, every alteration would but impair 
them. A fine face is already at the point of per- 
fection, and a fine lady should endeavour to keep 
it so : the impression it would receive from thought 
would but disturb its whole economy." 

To this speech I gave no reply, but made the 
best of my way to the Valley of the Graces. Here 
I found all those who before had been m.y com- 
panions in the Region of Beauty, now upon the 
same errand. 

As we entered the valley, the prospect insensibly 
seemed to improve ; we found every thing so na- 
tural, so domestic, and pleasing, that our minds, 
wliich before were congealed in admiration, now 
relaxed into gaiety and good-humour. We had 
designed to pay our respects to the presiding god- 
dess, but she was no where to be found. One of 
our companions asserted, that her temple lay to the 
right ; another, to the left ; a third insisted that it 
was straight before us ; and a fourth, that we had 
left it behind. In short, we found every thing fa- 
miliar and charming, but could not determine 
where to seek for the Grace in person. 

In this agreeable incertitude v/e passed several 
hours, and though very desirous of finding the god- 
dess, by no means impatient of the delay. Every 
part of the valley presented some minute beauty, 
which, without offering itself, at once stole upon 
the soul, and captivated us vath the charms of our 
retreat. Still, however, we continued to search, 
and might still have continued, had we not been 
interrupted by a voice, which, though we could not 
. see from whence it came, addressed us in this man- 
ner: "If you would find the Goddess of Grace, 
seek her not under one form, for she assumes a 
thousand. Ever changing under the eye of inspec- 
tion, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing, 
In contemplating her beaut}^, the eye glides over 
every perfection with giddy delight, and, capable 
of fixing no where, is charmed with the whole.* 
She is now Contemplation with solemn look, again 
Compassion with humid eye; she now sparkles 
with joy, soon every feature speaks distress ; her 
looks at times invite our approach, at others repress 
our presumption : the goddess can not be properly 



* Vultus nimium lubricus aspici. — Jlor. 



called beautiful under any one of these forms, but 
by combining them all she becomes irresistibly 
pleasing." Adieu. 



LETTER LXXVII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in Cliina. 

The shops of London are as well furnished as 
those of Pekin. Those of London have a picture 
hung at their door, informing the passengers what 
they have to sell, as those at Pekin have a board, 
to assure the buyer that they have no intention to 
cheat him. 

I went this morning to buy silk for a nightcap : 
immediately upon entering the mercer's shop, the 
master and his two men, with wigs plastered with 
powder, appeared to ask my commands. They 
v/ere certainly the civilest people alive : if I but 
looked, they flew to the place where I cast my eye; 
every motion of mine sent them running round the 
whole shop for my satisfaction. I informed them 
that I wanted what was good, and they showed me 
not less than forty pieces, and each was better than 
the former, the prettiest pattern in nature, and the 
fittest in the world for nightcaps. " My verj'^ good 
friend," said I to the mercer, "you must not pre- 
tend to instruct me in silks ; I know these in par- 
ticular to be no better than your mere flimsy Bun- 
gees." — " That may be," cried the mercer, who 
I afterwards found had never contradicted a man 
in his life ; " I can not pretend to say but they may; 
but, I can assure you, my Lady Trail has had a 
sack from this piece this very morning." — " But, 
friend," said I, " though my lady has chosen a sack 
from it, I see no necessity that I should wear it for 
a nightcap." — " That may be," returned he again, 
" yet what becomes a pretty lady, will at any time 
look well on a handsome gentleman." This short 
compliment was thrown in so very seasonably upon 
my ugly face, that, even though I disliked the silk, 
I desired him to cut off the pattern of a nightcap. 

While this business was consigned to his jour- 
neyman, the master himself took down some pieces 
of silk still flner than any I had yet seen, and 
spreading them before me, " There," cries he, 
" there's beauty; my Lord Snakeskin has bespoke 
the fellow to this for the birthnight this very morn- 
ing; it would look charmingly in waistcoats." — 
" But I don't want a waistcoat," replied I. " Not 
want a waistcoat !" returned the mercer, "then I 
would advise you to buy one ; when waistcoats are 
wanted you may depend upon it they will come dear. 
Always buy before you want, and you are sure 
to be well used, as they say in Cheapside." There 
was so much justice in his advice, that I could not 
refuse taking it; besides, the silk, which was really 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



345 



a good one, increased the temptation ; so I gave or- 
ders for that tea 

As I was vv'aiting to have my bargains measured 
and cut, which, I know not hovvf, they executed but 
slowl}'', during the interval tlie mercer entertained 
me with the modern manner of some of the nobihty 
receiving company in their morning-gowns; "Per- 
haps, sir," adds he, "you have a mind to see what 
kind of silli is universally worn." Without wait- 
ing for ray reply, he spreads a piece before me, 
which might be reckoned beautiful even in China. 
"If the nobility," continues he, "were to know I 
sold this to any under a Right Honourable, I 
should certainly lose their custom; you see, my 
lord, it is at once rich, tasty, and quite the thing." 
— "I am no lord," interrupted I. — " I beg pardon," 
cried he; "but be pleased to remember, when you 
intend buying a morning-gown, that you had an 
offer from me of something worth money. Con- 
science, sir, conscience, is my way of dealing ; you 
may buy a morning-go^vn now, or you may stay 
till they become dearer and less fashionable ; but it 
is not my business to advise." In short, most 
reverend Fum, he persuaded me to buy a morning- 
gown also, and would probably have persuaded me 
to have bought half the goods in his shop, if I had 
stayed long enough, or was furnished with suf- 
ficient money. 

Upon returning home, I could not help reflect- 
ing, with some astonishment, how this very man, 
with such a confined education and capacity, was 
yet capable of turning me as lie thought proper, 
and moulding me to his inclinations ! I knew he 
was only answering his own purposes, even while 
he attempted to appear solicitous about mine; yet, 
by a voluntary infatuation, a sort of passioi:, com- 
pounded of vanit}- and good-nature, I walked into 
the snare with my eyes open, and put myself to 
future pain in order to give him immediate pleasure. 
The wisdom of the ignorant somewhat resembles 
the instinct of animals ; it is diffused in but a very 
narrow sphere, but within that circle it acts with 
vigour, \miformity, and success. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXVIII. 



From the Same. 



From my former accounts, 3rou may be apt to 
fancy the English the most ridiculous people under 
the sun. They are indeed ridicidous; yet every 
other nation in Europe is equally so; each laughs 
at each, and the Asiatic at all. 

I may, upon another occasion, point out what is 
most strikingly absurd in other countries; I shall 
at present confine myself only to France. The 
first national pecuUarity a traveller meets upon en- 
tering that Idngdom, is an odd sort of staring vi- 



vacity in every eye, not excepting even the child- 
ren ; the people, it seems, have got it into their 
heads, that they have more wit than others, and so 
stare in order to look smart. 

I know not how it happens, but there appears a 
sickly delicacy in the faces of their finest women. 
This may have introduced the use of paint, and 
paint produces wrinkles ; so that a fine lady shall 
look like a hag at twenty-three. But as, in some 
measure, they never appear young, so it may be 
equally asserted, that they actually think them- 
selves never old ; a gentle miss shall prepare for 
new conquests at sixty, shall hobble a rigadoon 
when she can scarcely walk out without a crutch; 
she shall affect the girl, play her fan and her eyes, 
and talk of sentiments, bleeding hearts, and ex- 
piring for love, when actually dying with age. 
Like a departing philosopher, she attempts to 
make her last moments the most brilliant of her 
life. 

Their civility to strangers is what they are chief- 
ly proud of; and to confess sincerely, their beggars 
are the very politest beggars I ever knew : in other 
places, a traveller is addressed with a piteous whine, 
or a stiu-dy solemnity, but a French beggar shall 
ask your charity with a very genteel bow, and 
thank you for it with a smile and shrug. 

Another instance of this people's breeding I must 
not forget. An Englishman would not speak his 
native language in a company of foreigners, where 
he was sure that none understood him ; a travelling 
Hottentot himself would be silent if acquainted 
only with the language of his country: but a 
Frenchman shall talk to you whether you under- 
stand his language or not ; never troubling his head 
whether you have learned French, still he keeps 
up the conversation, fixes his eye full in your face, 
and asks a thousand questions, which he answers 
himself, for want of a more satisfactory reply. 

But their civility to foreigners is not half so great 
as their admiration of themselves. Every thing 
that belongs to them and their nation is great, 
magnificent beyond expression, quite romantic! 
every garden is a paradise, every hovel a palace, 
and every woman an angel. They shut their eyes 
close, throw their mouths wide open, and cry out 
in a rapture, "Sacre! what beauty! — O Ciel! 
what taste! — Tnort de ma vie! what grandeur! 
was ever any people like ourselves? we are the na- 
tion of men, and all the rest no better than two- 
legged barbarians." 

I fancy the French would make the best cooks 
in the world if they had hut meat : as it is, they 
can dress you out five different dishes from a nettle- 
pot, seven from a dock-leaf, and twice as many from 
a frog's haunches ; these eat prettily enough when 
one is a little used to them, are easy of digestion, 
and seldom overload the stomach with crudities. 
They seldom dine under seven hot dishes: it is 



346 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



true, indeed, with all this magnificence, they sel- 
dom spread a cloth before the guests ; but in that I 
can not be angry with them, since those who have 
got no linen on their backs may very well be ex- 
cused for wanting it upon their tables. 

Even religion itself loses its solemnity among 
them. Upon their roads, at about every five miles' 
distance, you see an image of the Virgin Mary, 
dressed up in grim head-clothes, painted cheeks, 
and an old red petticoat; before her a lamp is often 
kept burning, at which, with the saint's permission, 
I have frequently lighted my pipe. Instead of the 
Virgin, you are sometimes presented with a cruci- 
fix, at other times with a wooden Saviour, fitted 
out in complete garniture, with sponge, spear, 
nails, pincers, hammer, bees' wax, and vinegar- 
bottle. Some of those images, 1 have been told, 
came down from heaven ; if so, in heaven they have 
but bungling workmen. 

In passing through their towns, you frequently 
see the men sitting at the doors knitting stockings, 
while the care of cultivating the ground and pruning 
the vines falls to the women. This is, perhaps, 
the reason why the fair sex are granted some pe- 
culiar privileges in this country ; particularly, when 
they can get horses, of riding without a side- 
saddle. 

But I begin to think you may find this descrip- 
tion pert and dull enough ; perhaps it is so, yet, in 
general, it is the manner in which the French 
usually describe foreigners ; and it is but just to 
force a part of that ridicule back upon them which 
they attempt to lavish on others. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXIX. 



From the Same. 



The two theatres, which serve to amuse the 
citizens here, are again opened for the winter. 
The mimetic troops, different from those of the 
state, begin their campaign when all the others 
quit the field ; and, at a time when the Europeans 
cease to destroy each other in reality, they are en- 
tertained with mock battles upon the stage. 

The dancing master once more shakes his quiver- 
ing feet; the carpenter prepares his paradise of 
pasteboard ; the hero resolves to cover his forehead 
with brass, and the heroine begins to scour up her 
copper tail, preparative to future operations; in 
short, all are in motion, from the theatrical letter- 
carrier in yellow clothes, to Alexander the Great 
that stands on a stool. 

Both houses have already commenced hostilities. 
War, open war, and no quarter received or given ! 
Two singing women, like heralds, have begun the 
contest ; the whole town is divided on this solemn 
occasion; one has the finest pipe, the other the 



finest manner ; one courtesies to the ground, thi' 
other salutes the audience with a smile ; one comes 
on with modesty which asks, the other with bold 
ness which extorts, applause; one wears powder, 
the other has none ; one has the longest waist, but 
the other appears most easy : all, all is important 
and serious; the town as yet perseveres in its neu- 
trality ; a cause of such moment demands the most 
mature deliberation; they continue to exhibit, and 
it is very possible this contest may continue to 
please to the end of the season. 

But the generals of either army have, as I am 
told, several reinforcements to lend occasional as- 
sistance. If they produce a pair of diamond buckles 
at one house, we have a pair of eyelirows that 
can match them at the other. If we outdo them in 
our attitude, they can overcome us by a shrug ; if 
we can bring more children on the stage, they can 
bring more guards in red clothes, who strut and 
shoulder their swords to the astonishment of every 
spectator. 

They tell me here, that people frequent the 
theatre in order to be instructed as well as amused. 
I smile to hear the assertion. If I ever go to one 
of their playhouses, what with trumpets, hallooing 
behind the stage, and bawling upon it, I am quite 
dizzy before the performance is over. If I enter the 
house with any sentiments in my head, I am sure 
to have none going away, the whole mind being 
filled with a dead march, a funeral procession, a 
cat-call, a jig, or a tempest. 

There is, perhaps, nothing more easy than to 
write properly for the English theatre ; I am amazed 
that none are apprenticed to the trade. The au- 
thor, when well acquainted with the value of 
thunder and Ughtning ; when versed in all the mys- 
tery of scene-shifting and trap-doors; when skilled 
in the proper periods to introduce a wire- walker or 
a waterfall ; when instructed in every actor's pe- 
culiar talent, and capable of adapting his speeches 
to the supposed excellence ; when thus instructed, 
he knows all that can give a modern audience 
pleasure. One player shines in an exclamation, 
another in a groan, a third in a horror, a fourth in 
a start, a fifth in a smile, a sixth faints, and a 
seventh fidgets round the stage with peculiar vi- 
vacity; that piece, therefore, will succeed best, 
where each has a proper opportunity of shining ; 
the actor's business is not so much to adapt him- 
self to the poet, as the poet's to adapt himself to the 
actor. 

The great secret, therefore, of tragedy-writing, 
at present, is a perfect acquaintance with theatri- 
cal ahs and ohs ; a certain number of these, ini&c- 
spersed with g'ods .' to'rtwres .' racks! and damna- 
tion', shall distort every actor almost into convuK 
sions, and draw tears from every spectator ; a proper 
use of these will infallibly fill the whole house with 
applause. But, above all, a whining scene must 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



347 



must strike most forcibly. 1 would advise, from 
my present knowledge of the audience, the two fa- 
vourite players of the town to introduce a scene of 
this sort in every play. Towards the middle of the 
last act, I would liave them enter with wild looks 
and outspread arms: there is no necessity for 
speaking, they are only to groan at each other, they 
must vary the tones of exclamation and despair 
through the whole theatrical gamut, wring their 
figures into every shape of distress, and when their 
calamities have drawn a proper quantity of tears 
from the sympathetic spectators, they may go ofi" 
in dumb solenmity at diiferent doors, clasping their 
hands, or slapping their pocket holes ; this, which 
may be called a tragic pantomime, will answer 
every purpose of moving the passions as well as 
Words could have done, and it must save those ex- 
penses which go to reward an author. 

All modern plays that would keep the audience 
alive, must be conceived in this manner ; and, in- 
deed, many a modern play is made up on no other 
plan. This is the merit that lifts up the heart, like 
opium, into a rapture of insensibility, and can dis- 
miss the mind from all the fatigue of thinking : this 
is the eloquence that shines in many a long-forgot- 
ten scene, which has been reckoned excessively 
fine upon acting; this is the lightning that flashes 
no less in the hyperbolical tyrant " who breakfasts 
on the wind," than in little Norval, " as harm- 
less as the babe unborn." Adieu. 



LETTER LXXX. 



From the Same. 



I HAVE always regarded the spirit of mercy 
which appears in the Chinese laws with admira- 
tion. An order for the execution of a criminal is 
carried from court by slow journeys of six miles 
a-day, but a pardon is sent down with the most 
rapid dispatch. If five sons of the same father be 
guilty of the same offence, one of them is forgiven, 
in order to continue the family, and comfort his 
aged parents in their decline. 

Similar to this, there is a spirit of mercy breathes 
through the laws of England, which some errone- 
ously endeavour to suppress ; the laws, however, 
seem unwilling to punish the offender, or to fur- 
nish the officers of justice with every means of act- 
ing with severity. Those who arrest debtors are 
denied the use of arms ; the nightly watch is per- 
mitted to repress the disorders of the drunken 
citizens only with clubs ; Justice in such a case 
seems to hide her terrors, and permits some offend- 
ers to escape, rather than load any with a punish- 
ment disproportioned to the crime. 

Thus it is the glory of an Enghshman, that he 
is not only governed by laws, but that these are 
also tempered by mercy ; a country restrained by 



I severe laws, and those too executed with severity 
(as in Japan), is under the most terrible species of 
tyranny ; a royal tyrant is generally dreadful to the 
great, but numerous penal laws grind every rank 
of people, and chiefly those least able to resist op- 
pression, the ,poor. 

It is very possible thus for a people to become 
slaves to laws of their own enacting, as the Athe- 
nians were to those of Draco. "It might first 
happen," says the historian, " that men with pe- 
culiar talents for villany attempted to evade the 
ordinances already estabhshed : their practices, 
therefore, soon brought on a new law levelled 
against them; but the same degree of cunning 
which had taught the knave to evade the former 
statutes, taught him to evade the latter also ; he 
flew to new shifts, while Justice pursued with new 
ordinances ; still, however, he kept his proper dis- 
tance, and whenever one crime was judged penal 
by the state, he left committing it, in order to prac- 
tise some unforbidden species of villany. Thus 
the criminal against whom the threatenings were 
denounced always escaped free, while the simple 
rogue alone felt the rigour of justice. In the mean 
time, penal laws became numerous ; almost every 
person in the state, unknowingly, at different times 
offended, and was every moment subject to a ma- 
licious prosecution." In fact, penal laws, instead 
of preventing crimes, are generally enacted after 
the commission ; instead of repressing the growth 
of ingenious villany, only multiply deceit, by put- 
ting it upon new shifts and expedients of prac- 
tising with impunity. 

Such laws, therefore, resemble the guards which 
are sometimes imposed upon tributary princes, ap- 
parently indeed to secure them from danger, but 
in reality to confirm their captivity. 

Penal laws, it must be allowed, secure property 
in a state, but they also diminish personal security 
in the same proportion : there is no positive law, 
how equitable soever, that may not be sometimes 
capable" of injustice. When a law, enacted to 
make theft punishable with death, happens to be 
equitably executed, it can at best only guard our 
possessions ; but when, by favour or ignorance, 
Justice pronounces a wrong verdict, it then attacks 
our lives, since, in such a case, the whole commu- 
nity suffers with the innocent victim : if, therefore, 
in order to secure the effects of one man, I should 
make a law which may take away the life of ano- 
ther, in such a case, to attain a smaller good, I am 
guilty of a greater evil ; to secure society in the 
possession of a bauble, I render a real and valuable 
possession precarious. And indeed the experi- 
ence of every age may serve to vindicate the asser- 
tion ; no law could be more just than that called 
les<B majestatis, when Rome was governed by em- 
perors. It was but reasonable, that every conspi- 
racy against the administration should be detected 



348 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



and punished ; yet what terrible slughters succeed- 
ed in consequence of its enactment: proscriptions, 
strangiings, poisonings, in ahnoat every family of 
distinction; yet all done in a legal way, every 
criminal had his trial, and lost his life by a majori- 
ty of witnesses. 

And such will ever be the case, where punish- 
ments are numerous, and where a weak, vicious, 
but, above all, where a mercenary magistrate is con- 
cerned in their execution : such a man desires to 
see penal laws increased, since he too frequently 
has it in his power to turn them into instruments 
of extortion ; in such hands, the more laws, the 
wider means, not of satisfying justice, but of sati- 
ating avarice. 

A mercenary magistrate, who is rewarded in 
proportion, not to his integrity, but to the number 
he convicts, must be a person of the most unblem- 
ished character, or he will lean on the side of cruel- 
ty : and when once the work of injustice is begun, 
it is impossible to tell how far it will proceed. It 
is said of the hyjena, that, naturally, it is no way 
ravenous, but when once it has tasted human flesh, 
it becomes the most voracious animal of the forest, 
and continues to persecute mankind ever after. A 
corrupt magistrate may be considered as a human 
hyaena ; he begins, perhaps, by a private snap, he 
goes on to a morsel among friends, he proceeds 
to a meal in public, from a meal he advances to a 
^surfeit, and at last sucks blood like a vampyre. 

Not into such hands should the administration 
.of justice be intrusted, but to those who know how 
to reward as well as to punish. It was a fine say- 
ing of Nangfu the emperor, who, being told that 
his enemies had raised an insurrection in one of 
the distant provinces, — " Come, then, my friends," 
said he, "follow me, and I promise you that we 
shall quickly destroy them." He marched forward, 
and the rebels submitted upon his approach. All 
now thought that he would take the most signal 
revenge, but were surprised to see the captives 
treated with mildness and humanity. " How !" 
cries his first minister, "is this the manner in 
which you fulfil your promise? your royal word 
was given that your enemies should be destroyed, 
and behold j^ou have pardoned all, and even ca- 
ressed some !" — " I promised," replied the empe- 
ror, with a generous air, "to destroy my enemies ; 
I have fulfilled my word, for see they are enemies 
no longer, — I have m^Ae friends of them." 

This, could it always succeed, were the true 
method of destroying the enemies of a state ; well 
it were, if rewards and mercy alone could regulate 
the commonwealth : but since punishments are 
sometimes necessary, let them at least be rendejed 
terrible, by being executed but seldom; and let 
Justice lift her sword rather to terrify than revenge. 
Adieu, 



LETTER LXXXI. 



From the Same. 



I HAVE as yet given you but a short and imper- 
fect description of the ladies of England. Woman, 
my friend, is a subject not easily understood, even 
in China ; what therefore can be expected from my 
knowledge of the sex, in a country where they are 
universally allowed to be riddles, and I but a stran 
ger?" 

To confess a truth, I was afraid to begin the 
description, lest the sex shoukl undergo some new 
revolution before it was fimished ; and my picture 
should thus become old before it could well be said 
to have ever been new. To-day they are lifted 
upon stilts, to-morrow they lower their heels, and 
raise their heads ; their clothes at one time are 
bloated out with whalebone ; at present they have 
laid their hoops aside, and are become as slim as 
mermaids. Ah, all is in a state of continual fluc- 
tuation, from the mandarine's wife, who rattles 
through the streets in her chariot, to the humble 
seamstress, who clatters over the pavement in iron* 
shod pattens. 

What chiefly distinguishes the sex at present is 
the train. As a lady's quality or fashion was 
once determined here by the circumference of her 
hoop, both are now measured by the length of her 
tail. Women of moderate fortunes are contented 
with tails moderately long ; but ladies of true taste 
and distinction set no bounds to their ambition in 
this particular. I am told, the lady mayoress, on 
days of ceremony, carries one longer than a bell- 
wether of Bantam, whose tail, you know, is trun- 
dled along in a wheelbarrow. 

Sun of China, what contradictions do we find in 
this strange world ! not only the people of diflfer- 
ent countries think in opposition to each other; but 
the inhabitants of a single island are often found 
inconsistent with themselves. Would you believe 
if? this very people, my Fum, who are so fond of 
seeing their women with long tails, at the same 
time dock their horses to the very rump ! 

But you may easily guess that I am no ways 
displeased with a fashion which tends to increase a 
demand for the commodities of the East, and is so 
very beneficial to the country in which I was born. 
Nothing can be better calculated to increase the 
price of silk than the present manner of dressing. 
A lady's train is not bought but at some expense, 
and after it has swept the public walks for a very 
few evenings, is fit to be worn no longer ; more 
silk must be bought in order to repair the breach, 
and some ladies of peculiar economy are thus found 
to patch up their tails eight or ten times in a sea- 
son. This unnecessary consumption may intro- 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



349 



duce poverty here, but then we shall be the richer 
for it in China. 

The man in black, who is a professed enemy to 
this manner of ornamenting the tail, assures me, 
there are numberless inconveniences attending it, 
and that a lady, dressed up to the fashion, is as much 
a cripple as any in Nankin. But his chief indigna- 
tion is leveled at those who dress in this manner, 
without a proper fortune to support it. He assures 
me, that he has known some who have a tail though 
they wanted a petticoat ; and others, who, without 
any other pretensions, fancied they became ladies, 
merely from the addition of three superfluous 
yards of ragged silk: — "I know a thrifty good 
woman," continues he, "who, thinking herself 
obliged to carry a train like her betters, never walks 
from home without the uneasy apprehensions of 
wearing it out too soon : every excursion she makes, 
gives her new anxiety; and her train is every bit 
as importunate, and wounds her peace as much, 
as the bladder we sometimes see tied to the tail of a 
cat." 

Nay, he ventures to affirm, that a train may 
often bring a lady into the most critical circum- 
stances : "for should a rude fellow," says he, 
" offer to come up to ravish a kiss, and the lady at- 
tempt to avoid it, in retiring she must necessarily 
tread upon her train, and thus fall fairly upon her 
back; by which means every one knows — her 
clothes may be spoiled." 

The ladies here make no scruple to laugh at the 
smallness of a Chinese slipper, but I fancy our 
wives at China would have a more real cause of 
laughter, could they but see the immoderate length 
of a European train. Head of Confucius! to 
view a human being crippling herself with a great 
unwieldy tail for our diversion ! Backward she 
can not go, forward she must move but slowly ; and 
if ever she attempts to turn round, it must be in a 
circle not smaller than that described by the wheel- 
ing crocodile, when it would face an assailant. 
And yet to think that all this confers importance 
and majesty ! to think that a lady acquires addi- 
tional respect from fifteen yards of trailing taffeta 
I can not contain ; ha ! ha ! ha ! this is certainly a 
remnant of European barbarity ; the female Tar- 
tar, dressed in sheep-skins, is in far more conve- 
nient drapery. Their own writers have sometimes 
inveighed against the absurdity of this fashion, but 
perhaps it has never been ridiculed so well as upon 
the Italian theatre, where Pasquariello being en- 
gaged to attend on the Countess of Fernambroco, 
having one of his hands employed in carrying- her 
muff, and the other her lapdog, he bears her train 
majestically along, by sticking it in the waistband 
of his breeches. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXII. 



From the Same. 



A DISPUTE has for some time divided the phi- 
losophers of Europe; it is debated whether arts 
and sciences are more serviceable or prejudicial to 
mankind? They who maintain the cause of lite- 
rature, endeavour to prove their usefulness, from 
the impossibility of a large number of men subsist- 
ing in a small tract of country without them ; from 
the pleasure which attends the acquisition : and 
from the influence of knowledge in promoting 
practical morality. 

They who maintain the opposite opinion, display 
the happiness and innocence of those uncultivated 
nations who live without learning ; urge the nu- 
merous vices which are to be found only in polish- 
ed society ; enlarge upon the oppression, the cruelty, 
and the blood which must necessarily be shed, in 
order to cement civil society ; and insist upon the 
happy equality of conditions in a barbarous state, 
preferable to the unnatural subordination of a more 
refined constitution. 

This dispute, which has already given so much 
employment to speculative indolence, has been 
managed with much ardour, and (not to suppress 
our sentiments) with but little sagacity. They who 
insist that the sciences are useful in refined society 
are certainly right, and they who maintain that 
"barbarous nations are more happy without them 
are right also ; but when one side, for this reason, 
attempts to prove them as universally useful to the 
solitary barbarian as to the native of a crowded 
commonwealth ; or when the other endeavours to 
banish them as prejudicial to all society, even from 
populous states, as well as from the inhabitants of 
the wilderness, they are both wrong; since that 
knowledge which makes the happiness of a refined 
European would be a torment to the precarious 
tenant of an Asiatic wild. 

Let me, to prove this, transport the imagination 
for a moment to the midst of a forest in Siberia. 
There we behold the inhabitant, poor indeed, but 
equally fond of happiness with the most refined 
philosopher of China. The earth lies uncultivated 
and uninhabited for miles around him; his little 
family and he the sole and undisputed possessors. 
In such circumstances, nature and reason will in- 
duce him to prefer a hunter's life to that of culti- 
vating the earth. He will certainly adhere to that 
manner of living which is carried on at the small- 
est expense of labour, and that food which is most 
agreeable to the appetite ; he will prefer indolent, 
though precarious luxury, to a laborious, though 
permanent competence ; and a knowledge of his 



350 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



own happiness will determine him to persevere in 
native barbarity. 

In like manner, his happiness will incline him 
to bind himself by no law : laws are made in order 
to secure present property ; but he is possessed of 
no property which he is afraid to lose, and desires 
no more than will be sufficient to sustain him; to 
enter into compacts with otliers, would be under- 
going a voluntary obligation without the expect- 
ance of any reward. He and his countrymen arc 
tenants, not rivals, in the same inexhaustible for- 
est ; the increased possessions of one by no means 
diminishes the expectations arising from equal as- 
siduity in another ; there is no need of laws, there- 
fore, to repress ambition, where there can be no 
mischief attending its most boundless gratification. 

Our solitary Siberian will, in like manner, find 
the sciences not only entirely useless in directing 
his practice, but disgusting even in speculation. 
In every contemplation, our curiosity must be first 
excited by the appearances of things, before our 
reason undergoes the fatigue of investigating the 
causes. Some of those appearances are produced 
by experiment, others by minute inquiry ; some 
arise from a knowledge of foreign climates, and 
others from an intimate study of our own. But 
there are few objects in comparison which present 
themselves to the inhabitant of a barbarous coun- 
try : the game he hunts, or the transient cottage 
he builds, make up the chief objects of his concern ; 
his curiosity, therefore, must be proportionably less ; 
and if that is diminished, the reasoning faculty will 
be diminished in proportion. 

Besides, sensual enjoyment adds wings to curi- 
osity. We consider few objects with ardent atten- 
tion, but those which have some connexion with 
our wishes, our pleasures, or our necessities. A 
desire of enjoyment first interests our passions in 
the pursuit, points out the object of investigation, 
and reason then comments where sense has led the 
Way. An increase in the number of our enjoy- 
ments, therefore, necessarily produces an increase 
of scientific research: but in countries where 
almost every enjoyment is wanting, reason there 
seems destitute of its great inspirer, and specula- 
tion is the business of fools when it becomes its 
own reward. 

The barbarous Siberian is too wise, therefore, 
to exhaust his time in quest of knowledge, which 
neither curiosity prompts, nor pleasure impels him 
to pursue. When told of the exact admeasure- 
ment of a degree upon the equator of Q,uito, he 
feels no pleasure in the account ; when informed 
that such a discovery tends to promote navigation 
and commerce, he finds himself no way interested 
in either. A discovery, which some have pursued 
at the hazard of their Hves, affects him with neither 
astonishment nor pleasure. He is satisfied with 
thoroughly understanding the few objects which 



contribute to his own felicity ; he knows the pro- 
perest places where to lay the snare for the sable, 
and discerns the value of furs with more than Eu- 
ropean sagacity. More extended knowledge would 
only serve to render him unhappy ; it might lend 
a ray to show him the misery of his situation, but 
could not guide him in his efforts to avoid it. Igno- 
rance is the happiness of the poor. 

The misery of a being endowed with sentiments 
above its capacity of fruition, is most admirably 
described in one of the fables of Locman, the In- 
dian moralist. " An elephant that had been pe- 
culiarly serviceable in fighting the battles of Wist- 
now, was ordered by the god to wish for whatever 
he thought proper, and the desire should be attend- 
ed with immediate gratification. The elephant 
thanked his benefactor on bended knees, and de- 
sired to be endowed with the reason and faculties 
of a man. Wistnow was sorry to hear the foolish 
request, and endeavoured to dissuade him from his 
misplaced ambition ; but finding it to no purpose, 
gave him at last such a portion of wisdom as could 
correct even the Zendavesta of Zoroaster. The 
reasoning elephant went away rejoicing in his new 
acquisition ; and though his body still retained its 
ancient form, he found his appetites and passions, 
entirely altered. He first considered, that it would 
not only be more comfortable, but also more be- 
coming, to wear clothes ; but, unhappily he had no- 
method of making them himself, nor had he the 
,use of speech to demand them from others ; and 
this was the first time he felt real anxiety. He 
soon perceived how much more elegantly men were 
fed than he, therefore he began to loathe his usual 
food, and longed for those delicacies which adorn 
the tables of princes ; but here again he found it 
impossible to be satisfied, for though he could easily 
obtain flesh, yet he found it impossible to dress it 
in any degree of perfection. In short, every plea- 
sure I hat contributed to the felicity of mankindj 
served only to render him more miserable, as he 
found himself utterly deprived of the power of en- 
joyment. In this manner he led a repining, dis- 
contented life, detesting himself, and displeased 
with his ill-judged ambition ; till at last his bene- 
factor, Wistnow, taking compassion on his forlorn 
situation, restored him to the ignorance and the 
happiness which he was originally formed to en- 

No, my friend, to attempt to introduce the scien- 
ces into a nation of wandering barbarians, is only 
to render them more miserable than even nature 
designed they should be. A life of simplicity is 
best fitted to a state of solitude. 

The great lawgiver of Russia attempted to im- 
prove the desolate inhabitants of Siberia, by send- 
ing among them some of the politest men of Eu- 
rope. The consequence has shown, that the coun- 
try was as yet unfit to receive them : they languish- 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



351 



ed for a time, with a sort of exotic malady ; every 
day degenerated from themselves, and at last, in- 
stead of rendering the country more polite, they 
conformed to the soil, and put on barbarity. 

No, my friend, in order to make the sciences 
useful ill any country, it must first become popu- 
■lous ; the inhabitant must go through the different 
stages of hunter, shepherd, and husbandman; then, 
when property becomes valuable, and consequent- 
ly gives cause fur injustice; then, when laws are 
appointed to repress injury, and secure possession; 
when men, by the sanction of those laws, become 
possessed of superfluity; when luxury is thus in- 
troduced, and demands its continual supply ; then 
it is that the sciences become necessary and useful; 
the state then can not subsist without them; they 
must then be introduce d, at once to teach men to 
draw the greatest possible quantity of pleasure 
from circumscribed possession, and to restrain 
them within the bounds of moderate enjoyment. 

The sciences are not the cause of luxury, but 
its consequence; and this destroyer thus brings 
with it an antidote which resists the virulence of 
its own poison. By asserting that luxury intro- 
duces the sciences, we assert a truth ; but if, with 
those who reject the utility of learning, we assert 
that the sciences also introduce luxury, we shall 
be at once false, absurd, and ridiculous. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow. 

You are now arrived at an age, my son, when 
pleasure dissuades from application ; b.ut rob not, 
by present gratification, all the succeeding period 
of life of its happiness. Sacrifice a little pleasure 
at first to the expectance of greater. The study 
of a few years will make the rest of life completely 
easy. 

But instead of continuing the subject myself, 
take the following instructions, borrowed from a 
modern philosopher of China.* " He who has be- 
gun his fortune by study, will certainly confirm it 
by perseverance. The love of books damps the 
passion for pleasure ; and when this passion is once 
extinguished, life is then cheaply supported : thus 
a man, being possessed of more than he wants, can 
never be subject to great disappointments, and 
avoids all those meannesses which indigence some- 
times unavoidably produces. 

" There is unspeakable pleasure attending the 
life of a voluntary student. The first time 1 read 



* A translation of this passage may also be seen in Du Halde, 
Vol. II. fol. pp. 47 and 58. This extract will at least serve to 
show that fondness for humour which appears in the writbigs 
of th3 Chinese. 



an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained 
a new friend. When I read over a book I have 
perused before, it resembles the meeting with an 
old one. We ought to lay hold of every incident 
in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the 
important. It is not one diamond alone which gives 
lustre to another ; a common coarse stone is also 
employed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw 
advantage from the insults and contempt I meet 
with from a worthless fellow. His brutality ought 
to induce me to self-examination, and correct every 
blemish that may have given rise to his calumny. 

" Yet with all the pleasures and profits which 
are generally produced by learning, parents often 
find it difficult to induce their children to study. 
They often seem dragged to what wears the ap- 
pearance of application. Thus, being dilatory in 
the beginning, all future hopes of eminence are 
entirely cut ofl'. If they find themselves obliged 
to write two lines more polite tlian ordinary, their 
pencil then seems as heavy as a millstone, and they 
spend ten days in turning two or three periods with 
propriety. 

" These persons are most at a loss when a ban- 
quet is almost over; the plate and the dice go round, 
that the number of little verses, which each is 
obliged to repeat, may be determined by chance. 
The booby, when it comes to his turn, appears 
quite stupid and insensible. The company divert 
themselves with his confusion; and sneers, winks 
and whispers, are circulated at his expense. As 
for him, he opens a pair of large heavy eyes, stares 
at all about him, and even offers to join in the 
laugh, without ever considering himself as the 
burden of all their good-humour. 

" But it is of no importance to read much, except 
you be regular in your reading. If it be interrupted 
for any considerable time, it can never be attended 
with proper improvement. There are some who 
study for one day with intense application, and re- 
pose themselves for ten days after. But wisdom 
is a coquette, and must be courted with unabating 
assiduity. 

" It was a saying of the ancients, that a man 
never opens a book without reaping some advantage 
by it. I say with them, that every book can serve 
to make us more expert, except romances, and 
these are no better than instruments of debauchery. 
They are dangerous fictions, where love is the 
ruUng passion. 

"The most indecent strokes there pass for turns 
of wit ; intrigue and criminal liberties for gallantry 
and politeness. Assignations, and even villany, 
are put in such strong lights, as may inspire even 
grown men with the strongest passion ; how much 
more, therefore, ought the youth of either sex to 
dread them, whose reason is so weak, and whose 
hearts are so susceptible of passion. 

" To slip in bv a back-door, or leap a wall, are 



353 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



accomplishments that, when handsomely set off^ 
enchant a young heart. It is true, the plot is com 
monly wound up by a marriage concluded with 
the consent of parents, and adjusted by every cere 
mony prescribed by law. But as in the body of 
the work there are many passages that offend good 
morals, overthrow laudable customs, violate the 
laws, and destroy the duties most essential to so- 
ciety, virtue is thereby exposed to the most danger- 
ous attacks. 

"But, say some, the authors of these romances 
have nothing in view, but to represent vice punish- 
ed, and virtue rewarded. Granted. But will the 
greater number of readers take notice of these 
punishments and rewards? Are not their minds 
carried to something else? Can it be imagined 
that the art with which the author inspires the 
love of virtue, can overcome that crowd of thoughts 
which sway them to licentiousness? To be able 
to inculcate virtue by so leaky a vehicle, the author 
must be a philosopher of the first rank. But in 
our age, we can find but few first-rate philoso- 
phers. 

" Avoid such performances where vice assumes 
the face of virtue : seek wisdom and knowledge, 
without ever thinking you have found them. A 
man is wise, while he continues in the pursuit of 
wisdom ; but when he once fancies that he has 
found the object of his inquiry, he then becomes a 
fool. Learn to pursue virtue from the man that is 
blind, who never makes a step without first ex- 
amining the ground with his staff". 

" The world is like a vast sea ; mankind like a 
vessel sailing on its tempestuous bosom. Our 
prudence is its sails, the sciences serve us for oars, 
good or bad fortune are the favourable or contrary 
winds, and judgment is the rudder ; without this 
last, the vessel is tossed by every billow, and wall 
find shipwreck in every breeze. In a word, ob- 
scurity and indigence are the parents of vigilance 
and economy; vigilance and economy, of riches 
and honour; riches and honour, of pride and luxury ; 
pride and luxury, of impurity and idleness ; and 
impurity and idleness again produce indigence and 
obscurity. Such are the revolutions of life." 
Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXIV. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of 
tlie Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in Ciiina. 

I P.4NCY the character of a poet is in every coun- 
try the same : fond of enjoying the present, care- 
less of the future, his conversation that of a man of 
sense, his actions those of a fool ; of fortitude able 
to stand unmoved at the bursting of an earthquake, 
yet of sensibility to be affected by the breaking of 



a tea-cup; — such is his character, which, consider- 
ed in every hght, is the very opposite of that which 
leads to riches. 

The poets of the West are as remarkable for 
their indigence as their genius, and yet, among the 
numerous hospitals designed to relieve the poor, I 
have heard of but one erected for the benefit of de- 
cayed authors. This was founded by Pope Urban 
VIII., and called the retreat of the incurables, in- 
timating, that it was equally impossible to reclaim 
the patients, who sued for reception, from poverty 
or from poetry. To be sincere, were I to send you 
an account of the lives of the western poets, either 
ancient or modern, I fancy you would think me 
employed in collecting materials for a history of 
human wretchedness. 

Homer is the first poet and beggar of note among 
the ancients ; he was blind, and sung his ballads 
about the streets ; but it is observed that his mouth 
was more frequently filled with verses than with 
bread. Plautus, the comic poet, was better off" — he 
had two trades, he was a poet for his diversion, and 
helped to turn a mill in order to gain a livelihood. 
Terence was a slave ; and Boethius died in a gaol. 

Among the Itahans, Paulo Borghese, almost as 
good a poet as Tasso, knew fourteen different 
trades, and yet died because he could get employ- 
ment in none. Tasso himself, who had the most 
amiable character of all poets, has often been obliged 
to borrow a crown from some friend, in order to 
pay for a month's subsistence ; he has left us a 
pretty sonnet, addressed to his cat, in which he 
begs the light of her eyes to write by, being too poor 
to afford himself a candle. But Bentivoglio, poor 
Bentivogho! chiefly demands our pity. His come- 
dies will last with the Italian language : he dissi- 
pated a noble fortune in acts of charity and benevo- 
lence ; but, falling into misery in his old age, was 
refused to be admitted into an hospital which he 
himself had erected. 

In Spain, it is said, the great Cervantes died of 
hunger ; and it is certain, that the famous Ceimoena 
ended his days in an hospital. 

If we turn to France, we shall there find even 
stronger instances of the ingratitude of the public, 
Vaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of the 
honestest men of his time, was surnamed the Owl, 
from his being obliged to keep within all day, and 
venture out only by night, through fear of his credi- 
tors. His last will is very remarkable. After 
having bequeathed all his worldly t,:bstance to the 
discharging his debts, he goes on thus: "But, as 
there still may remain some creditors unpaid, even 
after all that I have shall be disposed of, in such a 
case it is my last will, that my body should be sold 
to the surgeons to the best advantage, and that the 
purchase should go to the discharging those debta 
which I owe to society; so that if I could not, while 
living, at least when dead, I may be useful." 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD, 



353 



Cassander was one of the greatest geniuses of 
his time, yet all his merit could not procure him a 
bare subsistence. Being by degrees driven into a 
hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he found 
amongst them, he even ventured at last ungrate- 
fully to impute his calamities to Providence. In 
his last agonies, when the priest entreated him to 
rely on the justice of Heaven, and ask mercy from 
him that made him — "If God," replies he, "has 
shown me no justice here, what reason have I to ex- 
pect any from him hereafter"]" But being answer- 
ed, that a suspension of justice was no argument 
that should induce us to doubt of its reality — " Let 
me entreat you," continued his confessor, "by all 
that is dear, to be reconciled to God, your father, 
your maker, and friend." — " No," replied the ex- 
asperated wnretch, "you know the manner in which 
he left me to live; and (pointing to the straw on 
which he was stretched) you see the manner in 
which he leaves me to die!" 

But the suiFerings of the poet in other countries 
is nothing, when compared to his distresses here; 
the names of Spenser and Otway, Butler and Dry- 
den, are every day mentioned as a national re- 
proach : some of them lived in a state of precarious 
indigence, and others Uterally died of hunger. 

At present, the few poets of England no longer 
depend on the great for subsistence ; they have now 
no other patrons but the public, and the public, col- 
lectively considered, is a good and a generous mas- 
ter. It is, indeed, too frequently mistaken as to 
the merits of every candidate for favour ; but, to 
make amends, it is never mistaken long. A per- 
formance indeed may be forced for a time into re- 
putation, but destitute of real merit, it soon sinks ; 
time, the touchstone of what is truly valuable, will 
soon discover the fraud, and an author should never 
arrogate to himself any share of success, till his 
works have been read at least ten years with satis- 
faction. 

A man of letters at present, whose works are 
valuable, is perfectly sensible of their value. Every 
polite member of the community, by buying what 
he writes, contributes to reward him. The ridicule, 
therefore, of Uving in a garret, might have been wit 
in th J last age, but continues such no longer, because 
no longer true. A writer of real merit now may 
easily be rich, if his heart be set only on fortune; 
and for those who have no merit, it is but fit that 
such should remain in merited obscurity. He may 
now refuse an invitation to dinner, without fearing 
to incur his patron's displeasure, or to starve by re- 
maining at home. He may now venture to appear 
in company with just such clothes as other men 
generally wear, and talk even to princes with all the 
conscious superiority of wisdom. Though he can 
not boast of fortune here, yet he can bravely assert 
the dignity of independence. Adieu. 
23 



LETTER LXXXV. 

From the Same. 

I HAVE interested myself so long in all the con- 
cerns of tliis peoplcj that I am almost become an 
Englishman; I now begin to read with pleasure of 
their taking towns or gaining battles, and secretly 
wish disappointment to all the enemies of Britain. 
Yet still my regard to mankind fills me with con- 
cern for their contentions. I could wish to see the 
disturbances of Europe once more amicably adjust- 
ed : I am an enemy to nothing in this good world 
but war ; I hate fighting between rival states : I hate 
it between man and man; I hate fighting even be- 
tween women! 

I already informed you, that while Europe was 
at variance, we were also threatened from the stage 
with an irreconcileable opposition, and that our 
singing women were resolved to sing at each other 
to the end of the season. O my friend, those fears 
were just! They are not only determined to sing at 
each other to the end of the season, but what is 
worse, to sing the same song; and what is still 
more insupportable, to make us pay for hearing. 

If they be for war, for my part, I should advise 
them to have a public congress, and there fairly 
squall at each other. What signifies sounding the 
trumpet of defiance at a distance, and calling in the 
town to fight their battles'? I would have them come 
boldly into one of the most open and frequented 
streets, face to face, and there try their skill in 
quavering. 

However this may be, resolved I am that they 
shall not touch one single piece of silver more of 
mine. Though I have ears for music, thanks be to 
Heaven, they are not altogether ass's ears. What ! 
Polly and the Pickpocket to night, Polly and the 
Pickpocket to-morrow night, and Polly and the Pick- 
pocket again! I want patience. I'll hear no more. My 
soul is out of tune ; all jarring discord and confu- 
sion. Rest, rest, ye dear three clinking shillings 
in my pocket's bottom : the music you make is more 
harmonious to my spirit than catgut, rosin, or all 
the nightingales that ever chirruped in petticoats. 

But what raises my indignation to the greatest 
degree is, that this piping does not only pester me 
on the stage, but is my punishment in private con- 
versation. What is it to me, whether the^ne pipe 
of the one, or the great manner of the other, be 
preferable? what care I if one has a better top, or 
the other a nobler bottom '? how am I concerned if 
one sings from the stomach, or the other sings wdth 
a snap 1 Yet paltry as these matters are, they make 
a subject of debate wherever I go ; and this musical 
dispute, especially among the fair sex, almost al- 
ways ends in a very unmusical altercation. 

Sure the spirit of contrition is mixed witht^tiw 



354 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



very constitution of the people! divisions among 
the inhabitants of other countries arise only from 
their higher concerns^ but subjects the most con- ; 
temptible are made an affair of party here; the| 
spirit is carried even into their amusements. The 
very ladies, whose duty should seem to allay the 
impetuosity of the opposite sex, become themselves 
party champions, engage in the thickest of the fight, 
scold at each other, and show their courage, even 
at the expense of their lovers and their beauty. 

There are even a numerous set of poets who 
help to keep up the contention, and write for the 
stage. Mistake me not, I do not mean pieces to 
be acted upon it, but panegyrical verses on the per- 
formers, — for that is the most universal method of 
writing for the stage at present. It is the business 
of the stage-poet, therefore, to watch the appearance 
of every new player at his own house, and so come 
out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper 
verses. In these, nature and the actor may be set 
to run races, the player always coming off victori- 
ous; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old 
Shakspeare may put on his winding-sheet, and pay 
him a visit; or the tuneful nine may strike up their 
harps in his praise ; or, should it happen to be an 
actress, Venus, the beauteous queen of love, and 
the naked Graces, are ever in waiting : the lady 
must be herself a goddess bred and born ; she must — 
But you shall have a specimen of one of these 
poems, which may convey a more precise idea. 

ON SEEING MRS.*** PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER 
OP ++**, 

To you, bright fair, the nine address their lays, 
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise. 
The heart-felt power of every charm divine, 
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine f 
See how she moves along with every grace, 
AVhile soul-brought tears steal down each shining face ! 
She speaks; 'tis rapture all and nameless bliss, 
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this? 
As when in Paphian groves the queen of love, 
With fond complaint, address'd the listening Jove, 
'Twas joy, and endless blisses, all around, 
And rocks forgot their hai-dness at the sound. 
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in, 
. And felt her charms, without disguise within. 

And yet think not, my friend, that I have any 
particular animosity against the champions who 
are at the head of the present commotion ; on the 
contrary, I could find pleasure in their music, if 
served up at proper intervals ; if I heard it only on 
proper occasions, and not about it wherever I go. 
In fact, I could patronize them both ; and, as an 
instance of my condescension in this particular, 
they may come and give me a song at my lodgings, 
on any evening when I am at leisure, provided 
they keep a becoming distance, and stand, while 
they continue to entertain me, with decent humili- 
ty, at the door. 

You perceive I have not read the seventeen books 



of Chinese ceremonies to no purpose. I know the 
proper share of respect due to every rank in so- 
ciety. Stage-players, fire-eaters, singing women, 
dancing dogs, wild beasts, and wire-walkers, as 
their efforts are exerted for our a^iusement, ought 
not entirely to be despised. The laws of every 
country should allow them to play their tricks at 
least with impunity. They should not be branded 
with the ignominious appellation of vagabonds; at 
least they deserve a rank in society equal to the 
mystery of barbers or undertakers, and, could my 
influence extend so far, they should be allowed to 
earn even forty or fifty pounds a-year, if eminent in 
their profession. 

I am sensible, however, that you will censure 
me for profusion in this respect, bred up as you are 
in the narrow prejudices of eastern frugality. You 
will undoubtedly assert, that such a stipend is too 
great for so useless an employment. Yet how 
will your surprise increase, when told, that though 
the law holds them as vagabonds, many of them 
earn more than a thousand a-year! You are 
amazed. There is cause for amazement. A vaga- 
bond with a thousand a-year is indeed a curiosity 
in nature ; a wonder far surpassing the flying fish, 
petrified crab, or travelling lobster. However, from 
my great love to the profession, I would willingly 
have them divested of part of their contempt, and 
part of their finery; the law should kindly take 
them under the wing of protection, fix them into 
a corporation, like that of the barbers, and abridge 
their ignominy and their pensions. As to their 
abilities in other respects, I would leave that en- 
tirely to the public, who are certainly in this case 
the properest judges, — whether they despise them 
or not. 

Yes, my Fum, I would abridge their pensions, 
A theatrical warrior, who conducts the battles of 
the stage, should be cooped up with the same cau- 
tion as a bantam cock that is kept for fighting. 
When one of those animals is taken from its na- 
tive dunghill, we retrench it both in the quantity 
of its food, and the number of its seraglio : players 
should in the same manner be fed, not fattened; 
they should be permitted to get their bread, but not 
eat the people's bread into the bargain; and, in- 
stead of being permitted to keep four mistresses, 
in conscience, they should be contented only with 
two. 

Were stage-players thus brought into bounds, 
perhaps we should find their admirers less sanguine, 
and consequently less ridiculous, in patronizing 
them. We should be no longer struck with the 
absurdity of seeing the same people, whose valour 
makes such a figure abroad, apostrophizing in the 
praise of a bouncing blockhead, and wrangling in 
the defence of a copper-tailed actress at home. 

I shall conclude my letter with the sensible ad- 
monition of Me the philosopher. " You love bar- 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD, 



355 



mony," says he, " and are charmed with music. I 
do not blame you for hearing a fine voice, when 
you are in your closet, with a lovely parterre under 
your eye, or in the night-time, while perhaps the 
moon diffuses her silver rays. But is a man to car- 
ry this passion so far as to let a company of come- 
dians, musicians, and singers, grow rich upon his 
exhausted fortunel If so, he resembles one of those 
dead bodies, whose brains the embalmer has picked 
out through the ears." Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXVI. 

From the Same. 

Op all the places of amusement where gentlemen 
and ladies are entertained, I have not been yet to 
visit Newmarket. This, I am told, is a large field, 
where, upon certain occariions, three or four horses 
are brought together, then set a-running, and that 
horse which runs swiftest wins the wager. 

This is reckoned a very polite and fashionable 
amusement here, much more followed by the no- 
bility than partridge fighting at Java, or paper 
kites in Madagascar ; several of the great here, I 
am told, understand as much of farriery as their 
grooms ; and a horse, with any share of merit, can 
never want a patron among the nobility. 

We have a description of this entertainment al- 
most every day in some of the gazettes, as for in- 
stance: "On such a day, the Give and Take 
Plate was run for between his Grace's Crab, his 
Lordship's Periwinkle, and 'Squire Smackem's 
Slamerkin. All rode their own horses. There 
was the greatest concourse of nobility that has been 
known here for several seasons. The odds were in 
favour of Crab in the beginning ; but Slamerkin, 
after the first heat, seemed to have the match hol- 
low; however, it was soon seen that Periwinkle 
improved in wind, which at last turned out ac- 
cordingly ; Crab was run to a stand-still, Slamer- 
kin was knocked up, and Periwinkle was brought 
in with universal applause." Thus, you see. Peri- 
winkle received universal applause, and, no doubt, 
his lordship came in for some share of that praise 
which was so liberally bestowed upon Periwinkle. 
Sun of China ! how glorious must the senator ap- 
pear in his cap and leather breeches, his whip 
crossed in his mouth, and thus coming to the goal, 
amongst the shouts of grooms, jockeys, pimps, sta- 
ble-bred dukes, and degraded generals ! 

From the description of this princely amusement, 
now transcribed, and from the great veneration 1 
have for the characters of its principal promoters, 1 
make no doubt but I shall look upon a horse-race 
with becoming reverence, predisposed as I am by a 
similar amusement, of which I have lately been a 
spectator; for just now I happened to have an op- 
portunity of being present at a cart-race. 



Whether this contention between three carts of 
different parishes was promoted by a subscription 
among the nobihty, or whether the grand jury, in 
council assembled, had gloriously combined to en- 
courage plaustral merit, I can not take upon me to 
determine ; but certain it is, the whole was con- 
ducted with the utmost regularity and decorum, 
and the company, which made a brilliant appear- 
ance, were universally of opinion, that the sport 
was high, the running fine, and the riders influ- 
enced by no bribe. 

It was run on the road from London to a village 
called Brentford, between a*turnip-cart, a dust-cart, 
and a dung-cart ; each of the owners condescend- 
ing to mount, and be his own driver. The odds, 
at starting, were Dust against Dung, five to four; 
but after half a mile's going, the knowing ones 
found themselves all on the wrong side, and it was 
Turnip against the field, brass to silver. 

Soon, however, the contest became more doubt- 
ful ; Turnip indeed kept the way, but it was per- 
ceived that Dung had better bottom. The road 
re-echoed with theshouts of the spectators — " Dung 
against Turnip ! Turnip against Dung!" was now 
the universal cry ; neck and neck; one rode lighter, 
but the other had more judgment. I could not but 
particularly observe the ardour with which the fair 
sex espoused the cause of the different riders on 
this occasion ; one was charmed with the unwash- 
ed beauties of Dung ; another was captivated with 
the patibulary aspect of Turnip ; while in the mean 
time, unfortunate gloomy Dust, who came whipping 
behind, was cheered by the encouragement of some, 
and pity of all. 

The contention now continued for some time, 
without a possibility of determining to whom vic- 
tory designed the prize. The winning post ap- 
peared in view, and he who drove the turnip-cart 
assured himself of success; and successful he might 
have been, had his horse been as ambitious as he; 
but upon approaching a turn from the road, which 
led homewards, the horse fairly stood still, and re- 
fused to move a foot farther. The dung-cart had 
scarcely time to enjoy this temporary triumph, 
when it was pitched headlong into a ditch by the 
wayside, and the rider left to wallow in congenial 
mud. Dust, in the mean time, soon came up, and 
not being far from the post, came in, amidst the 
shouts and acclamations of all the spectators, and 
greatly caressed by all the quality of Brentford. 
Fortune was kind only to one, who ought to have 
been favourable to all; each had pecuhar merit, 
each laboured hard to earn the prize, and each rich- 
ly deserved the cart he drove. 

I do not know whether this description may not 
have anticipated that which I intended giving of 
Newmarket. I am told, there is little else to be 
seen even there. There may be some minute dif- 
ferences in the dress of the epectatoivbut none at. 



356 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



all in their understandings ; the quality of Brent- 
ford are as remarkable for politeness and delicacy 
as the breeders of Newmarket. The quality of 
Brentford drive their own carts, and the honour- 
able fraternity of Newmarket ride their own horses. 
In short, the matches in one place are as rational 
as those in the other ; and it is more than probable, 
that turnips, dust, and dung, are all that can be 
found to furnish our description in either. 

Forgive me, my friend, but a person like me, 
hred up in a philosophic seclusion, is apt to regard, 
- perhaps with too much asperity, those occurrences 
which sink man below his station in nature, and 
diminish the intrinsic value of humanity. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

FromFum Hoam, to Lien Chi Altangi. 

Yorr tell me the people of Europe are wise; but 
where lies their wisdoml You say they are valiant 
too; yet I have some reasons to doubt of their 
valour. They are engaged in war among each 
other, yet apply to the Russians, their neighbours 
and ours, for assistance. Cultivating such an al- 
liance, argues at once imprudence and timidity. 
All subsidies paid for such an aid in strengthening 
the Russians, already too powerful, and weakening 
the employers, already exhausted by intestine com- 
motions. 

I cannot avoid beholding the Russian empire as 
the natural enemy of the more western parts of 
Europe; as an enemy already possessed of great 
strength, and, from the nature of the govermnent, 
every day threatening to become more powerful. 
This extensive empire, which, both in Europe and 
Asia, occupies almost a third ofthe old world, was, 
about two centuries ago, divided into separate king- 
doms and dukedoms, and, from such a division, 
consequently feeble. Since the time, however, of 
Johan Basilides, it has increased in strength and 
extent; and those untrodden forests, those innumer- 
able savage animals, which formerly covered the 
face of the country, are now removed, and colonies 
of mankind planted in their room. A kingdom 
thus enjoying peace internally, possessed of an un- 
bounded extent of dominion, and learning the 
military art at the expense of others abroad, must 
every day grow more powerful ; and it is probable 
we shall hear Russia in future times, as formerly, 
called the Officina Gentium. 

It was long the wish of Peter, their great mon- 
arch, to have a fort in some of the western parts of 
Europe ; many of his schemes and treaties were 
directed to this end, but, happily for Europe, he 
failed in them all. A fort in the power of this 
people would be like the possession of a flood- 
gate; and whenever ambition, interest, or necessity 



prompted, they might then be able to deluge the 
whole western world with a barbarous inundation. 

Believe me, my friend, I can not sufficiently con- 
temn the politicians of Europe, who thus make 
this powerful people arbitrators in their quarrel. 
The Russians are now at that period between re- 
finement and barbarity, which seems most adapted 
to miUtary achievement ; and if once they happen 
to get footing in the western parts of Europe, it is 
not the feeble efforts ofthe sons of effeminacy and 
dissension that can serve to remove them. The 
fertile valley and soft climate will ever be sufficient 
inducements to draw whole myriads from their 
native deserts, the trackless wild, or snowy moun- 
tain. 

History, experience, reason, nature, expand the 
book of wisdom before the eyes of mankind, but 
they will not read. We have seen with terror a 
winged phalanx of famished locusts, each singly 
contemptible, but from multitude become hideous, 
cover, like clouds, the face of day, and threaten the 
whole world with ruin. We have seen them 
settling on the fertile plains of India and Egypt, 
destroying in an instant the labours and the hopes 
of nations ; sparing neither the fruit of the earth 
nor the verdure of the fields, and changing into a 
frightful desert landscapes of once luxuriant beauty. 
We have seen myriads of ants issuing together 
from the southern desert, like a torrent whose 
source was inexhaustible, succeeding each other 
without end, and renewing their destroyed forces 
with unwearied perseverance, bringing desolation 
wherever they came, banishing men and animals, 
and, when destitute of all subsistence, in heaps in- 
fecting the wilderness which they had made! 
Like these have been the migrations of men. 
When as yet savage, and almost resembling their 
brute partners in the forest, subject like them only 
to the instincts of nature, and directed by hunger 
alone in the choice of an abode, how have we seen 
whole armies starting wild at once from their forests 
and their dens ! Goths, Huns, Vandals, Saracens, 
Turks, Tartars, myriads of men, animals in human 
form, without country, without name, without laws, 
overpowering by numbers all opposition, ravaging 
cities, overturning empires, and, after having de- 
stroyed whole nations, and spread extensive deso- 
lation, how have we seen them sink oppressed by 
some new enemy, more barbarous and even more 
unknown than they! Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXVIII 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President ofthe 
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

As the instruction of the fair sex in this country 
is entirely committed to the care of foreigners; as 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



357 



their language-masters, music-masters, hair-friz- 
zers, and governesses, are all from abroad, I had 
some intentions of opening a female academy my- 
self and made no doubt, as I was quite a foreigner, 
of meeting a favourable reception. 

In this, I intended to instruct the ladies in all the 
conjugal mysteries ; wives should be taught the art 
of managing husbands, and maids the skill of 
properly choosing them ; I would teach a wife how 
far she might venture to be sick, without giving 
disgust ; she should be acquainted with the great 
benefits of the cholic in the stomach, and all the 
thorough-bred insolence of fashion ; maids should 
learn the secret of nicely distinguishing every com- 
petitor ; they should be able to know the difference 
between a pedant and a scholar, a citizen and a 
prig, a squire and his horse, a beau and his monkey ; 
but chiefly, they should be taught the art of 
managing their smiles, from the contemptuous 
simper to the long laborious laugh. 

But I have discontinued the project ; for what 
would signify teaching ladies the manner of govern- 
ing or choosing husbands, when marriage is at 
present so much out of fashion, that a lady is very 
well off who can get any husband at all? Celibacy 
now prevails in every rank of life : the streets are 
crowded with old bachelors, and the houses with 
ladies who have refused good oifers, and are never 
likely to receive any for the future. 

The only advice, therefore, I could give the fair 
sex, as things stand at present, is to get husbands 
as fast as they can. There is certainly nothing in 
the whole creation, not even Babylon in ruins, 
more truly deplorable than a lady in the virgin 
bloom of sixty-three, or a battered unmarried beau, 
who squibs about from place to place, showing his 
pigtail wig and his ears. The one appears to my 
imagination in the form of a double night-cap, or a 
roll of pomatum, the other in the shape of an 
electuary, or a box of pills. 

I would once more, therefore, advise the ladies 
to get husbands. I would desire them not to dis- 
card an old lover without very suflicient reasons, 
nor treat the new with ill-nature till they know him 
false ; let not prudes allege the falseness of the sex, 
coquettes the pleasures of long courtship, or parents 
the necessary preliminaries of penny for penny. I 
have reasons that would silence even a casuist in 
this particular. In the first place, therefore, I 
divide the subject into fifteen heads, and then sic 
argumentor. — But not to give you and myself 
the spleen, be contented at present with an Indian 
tale. 

In a winding of the river Amidar, just before it 
falls into the Caspian Sea, there lies an island un- 
frequented by the inhabitants of the continent. In 
this seclusion, blessed with all that wild uncultiva- 
ted nature could bestow, lived a princess and her 
two daughters. She had been wrecked upon the 



coast while her children as yet were infants, who, 
of consequence, though growTi up, were entirely 
unacquainted with man. Yet, inexperienced as 
the young ladies were in the opposite sex, both 
early discovered symptoms, the one of prudery, the 
other of being a coquette. The eldest was ever 
learning maxims of wisdom and discretion from 
her mamma, while the youngest employed all her 
hours in gazing at her own face in a neighbouring 
fountain. 

Their usual amusement in this solitude was 
fishing : their mother had taught them all the se- 
crets of the art ; she showed them which were the 
most hkely places to throw out the line, what baits 
were most proper for the various seasons, and the 
best manner to draw up the finny prey, when they 
had hooked it. In this manner they spent their 
time, easy and innocent, till one day, the princess 
being indisposed, desired them to go and catch her 
a sturgeon or a shark for supper, which she fancied 
might sit easy on her stomach. The daughters 
obeyed, and clapping on a gold fish, the usual bait 
on those occasions, went and sat upon one of the 
rocks, letting the gilded hook glide down with the 
stream. 

On the opposite shore, farther down, at the 
mouth of the river, lived a diver for pearls, a youth 
who, by long habit in his trade, was almost grown 
amphibious ; so that he could remain whole hours 
at the bottom of the water, without ever fetching 
breath. He happened to be at that very instant 
diving when the ladies were fishing with the gild- 
ed hook. Seeing therefore the bait, which to him 
had the appearance of real gold, he was resolved to 
seize the prize, but both his hands being already 
filled with pearl oysters, he found himself obliged 
to snap at it with his mouth : the consequence is 
easily imagined ; the hook, before unperceived, was 
instantly fastened in his jaw, nor could he, with 
all his efforts or his floimdering, get free. 

" Sister," cries the youngest princess, " I have 
certainly caught a monstrous fish; I never perceived 
any thing struggle so at the end of my line before ; 
come and help me to draw it in." They both now, 
therefore, assisted in fishing up the diver on shore ; 
but nothing could equal their surprise upon seeing 
him. "Bless my eyes," cries the prude, "what 
have we got here? this is a very odd fish to be 
sure ; I never saw any thing in my life look so 
queer: what eyes, what terrible claws, what a 
monstrous snout ! I have read of this monster some- 
where before, it certainly must be a Tanlang that 
eats women; let us throw it back into the sea where 
we found it." 

The diver, in the mean time, stood upon the 
beach at the end of the line, with the hook in his 
mouth, using every art that he thought could best 
excite pity, and particularly looking extremely 
tender, which is usual in such ciicumstancos. 



358 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



The coquette, therefore, in some measure influenc- 
ed by the innocence of his looks, ventured to con- 
tradict her companion. "Upon my word, sister," 
says she, "I see nothing in the animal so very ter- 
rible as you are pleased to apprehend; I think it 
may serve well enough for a change. Always 
sharks, and sturgeons, and lobsters, and crawfish, 
make me quite sick. I fancy a slice of this, nicely 
grilladed, and dressed up with shrimp sauce, would 
be very pret ty eating. I fancy mamma would like a 
bit with pickles above all things in the world; and 
if it should not sit easy on her stomach, it will be time 
enough to discontinue it when found disagreeable, 
you know." " Horrid !" cries the prude, "would 
the girl be poisoned? I tell you it is a Tanlang ; 
I have read of it in twenty places. It is every 
where described as the most pernicious animal that 
ever infested the ocean. I am certain it is the most 
insidious ravenous creature in the world ; and is 
certain destruction if taken internally." The 
youngest sister was now therefore obliged to sub- 
mit: both assisted in drawing the hook with some 
violence from the diver's jaw ; and he, finding him- 
self at liberty, bent his breast against the broad 
wave, and disappeared in an instant. 

Just at this juncture the mother came down to 
the beach, to know the cause of her daughters' 
delay ; they told her every circumstance, describ- 
ing the monster they had caught. The old lady 
was one of the most discreet women in the world ; 
she was called the black-eyed princess, from two 
black eyes she had received in her youth, being a 
little addicted to boxing in her liquor. " Alas, my 
children," cries she, "what have you done'? the 
fish you caught was a man-fish; one of the most 
tame domestic animals in the world. "We could 
have let him run and play about the garden, and 
he would have been twenty times more entertain- 
ing than our squirrel or monkey." — " If that be 
all," says the young coquette, " we will fish for 
him again. If that be all, I'll hold three tooth- 
picks to one pound of snuflT, I catch him when- 
ever I please." Accordingly they threw in their 
line once more, but with all their gilding, and 
paddling, and assiduity, they could never after catch 
the diver. In this state of solitude and disappoint- 
ment, they continued for many years, still fishing, 
but without success; till at last the Genius of 
the place, in pity to their distresses, changed the 
prude into a shrimp, and the coquette into an 
oyster. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXIX. 

From the Same. 

I AM amused, my dear Fum, with the labours of 
some of the learned here. One shall write you a 
whole folio on the dissection of a caterpillar. 



Another shall swell his works with a description 
of the plumage on the vring of a butterfly; a third 
shall see a little world on a peach leaf, and publish 
a book to describe what his readers might see more 
clearly in two minutes, only by being furnished 
with eyes and a microscope. 

I have frequently compared the understandings 
of such men to their own glasses. Their field of 
vision is too contracted to take in the whole of any 
but minute objects ; they view all nature bit by 
bit; now the proboscis, now the antennae, now the 
the pinnae, of — a flea ! Now the polypus comes 
to breakfast upon a worm ; now it is kept up to see 
how long it will live without eating; now it is 
turned inside outward, and now it sickens and 
dies. Thus they proceed, laborious in trifles, con 
stant in experiment, without one single abstrac 
tion, by which alone knowledge may be properly 
said to increase ; till at last their ideas, ever em- 
ployed upon minute things, contract to the size of 
the diminutive object, and a single mite shall fill 
the whole mind's capacity. 

Yet, believe me, my friend, ridiculous as these 
men are to the world, they are set up as objects of 
esteem for each other. They have particular 
places appointed for their meetings ; in which one 
shows his cockle-shell, and is praised by all the 
society ; another produces his powder, makes some 
experiments that result in nothing, and comes ofiT 
with admiration and applause : a third comes out 
with the important discovery of some new process 
in the skeleton of a mole, and is set down as the 
accurate and sensible ; while one, still more fortu- 
nate than the rest, by pickling, potting, and pre- 
serving monsters, rises into unbounded reputation. 

The labours of such men, instead of being cal- 
culated to amuse the public, are laid out only in 
diverting each other. The world becomes very 
little the better or the wiser, for knowing what is 
the peculiar food of an insect, that is itself the 
food of another, which in its turn is eaten by a 
third ; but there are men who have studied them- 
selves into a habit of investigating and admiring 
such minutiae. To these such subjects are pleasing, 
as there are some who contentedly spend whole 
days in endeavouring to solve enigmas, or disen- 
tangle the puzzling sticks of children. 

But of all the learned, those who pretend to in- 
vestigate remote antiquity have least to plead in 
their own defence, when they carry this passion to 
a faulty excess. They are generally found to sup- 
ply by conjecture the want of record, and then by 
perseverance are wrought up into a confidence of 
the truth of opinions, which even to themselves at 
first appeared founded only in imagination. 

The Europeans have heard much of the kingdom 
of China : its politeness, arts, commerce, laws, and 
morals, are, however, but very imperfectly known 
among them. They have even now in their Indian 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



359 



warehouses numberless utensils, plants, minerals, 
aad machines, of the use of which they are entirely 
ignorant : nor can any among them even make a 
probable guess for what they might have been de- 
signed. Yet though this people be so ignorant of 
the present real state of China, the philosophers 1 
am describing have entered into long, learned, la- 
borious disputes about what China was two thou- 
sand years ago. China and European happiness 
are but little connected even at this day ; but Eu- 
ropean happiness and China two thousand years 
ago have certainly no connexion at all. However, 
the learned have written on and pursued the sub- 
ject through all the labyrinths of antiquity : though 
the early dews and the tainted gale be passed away, 
though no footsteps remain to direct the doubtful 
chase, yet still they run forward, open upon the 
uncertain scent, and though in fact they follow 
nothing, are earnest in the pursuit. In this chase, 
however, they all take different ways. One, for 
example, confidently assures us, that China was 
peopled by a colony from Egypt. Sesostris, he 
observes, led his army as far as the Ganges ; there- 
fore, if he went so far, he might still have gone as 
far as China, which is but a thousand miles from 
thence; therefore he did go to China; therefore 
China was not peopled before he went there ; 
therefore it was peopled by him. Besides, the 
Egyptians have pyramids; the Chinese have in 
like manner their porcelain tower : the Egyptians 
used to light up candles upon every rejoicing ; the 
Chinese have lanterns upon the same occasion 
the Egyptians had their great river ; so have the 
Chinese. But what serves to put the matter past 
a doubt is, that the ancient kings of China and 
those of Egypt were called by the same names. 
The Emperor Ki is certainly the same with King 
Atoes ; for if we only change K into A, and i into 
toes, we shall have the name Atoes; and with 
equal ease Menes may be proved to be the same 
with the Emperor Yu ; therefore the Chinese are 
a colony from Egypt. 

But another of the learned is entirely different 
from the last; and he will have the Chinese to be 
a colony planted by Noah just after the deluge. 
First, from the vast similitude there is between the 
name of Fohi, the founder of the Chinese monar- 
chy; and that of Noah, the preserver of the human 
race ; Noah, Fohi, very like each other truly ; they 
have each but four letters, and only two of the four 
happen to differ. But to strengthen the argument, 
Fohi, as the Chinese chronicle asserts, had no 
father. Noah, it is true, had a father, as the Eu- 
ropean Bible tells us ; but then, as this father was 
probably drowned in the flood, it is just the same 
as if he had no father at all ; therefore Noah and 
Fohi are the same. Just after the flood the earth 
was covered with mud; if it was covered with 
mud, it must have been incrustated mud ; if it was 



incrustated, it was clothed with verdure : this was a 
fine unembarrassed road for Noah to fly from his 
wicked children ; he therefore did fly from them, 
and took a journey of two thousand miles for his 
own amusement: therefore Noah and Fohi are 
the same. 

Another sect of literati, for they all pass among 
the vulgar for very great scholars, assert, that the 
Chinese came neither from the colony of Sesos- 
tris, nor from Noah, but are descended from Ma- 
gog, Meshec, and Tubal, and therefore neither Se- 
sostris, nor Noah, nor Fohi, are the same. 

It is thus, my friend, that indolence assumes the 
airs of wisdom, and while it tosses the cup and 
ball with infantine folly, desires the world to look 
on, and calls the stupid pastime philosophy and 
learning. Adieu. 



LETTER XC. 



From the Same. 



When the men of this country are once turned 
of thirty, they regularly retire every year at proper 
intervals to lie in of the spleen. The vulgar, un- 
furnished with the luxurious comforts of the soft 
cushion, down bed, and easy chair, are obliged, 
when the fit is on them, to nurse it up by drink- 
ing, idleness, and ill-humour. In such disposi- 
tions, unhappy is the foreigner who happens to 
cross them ; his long chin, tarnished coat, or pinch- 
ed hat, are sure to receive no quarter. If they 
meet no foreigner, however, to fight with, they 
are in such cases generally content with beating 
each other. 

The rich, as they have more sensibiUty, are ope- 
rated upon with greater violence by this disorder. 
Different from the poor, instead of becoming more 
insolent, they grow totally unfit for opposition. A 
general here, who would have faced a culverin 
when well, if the fit be on him, shall hardly find 
courage to snuff a candle. An admiral, who could 
have opposed a broadside without shrinking, shall 
sit whole days in his chamber, mobbed up in dou- 
ble night-caps, shuddering at the intrusive breeze, 
and distinguishable from his wife only by his black 
beard and heavy eyebrows. 

In the country, this disorder mostly attacks the 
fair sex ; in town, it is most unfavourable to the 
men. A lady, who has pined whole years amidst 
cooing doves and complaining nightingales, in rural 
retirement, shall resume all her vivacity in one 
night at a city gaming-table ; her husband, who 
roared, hunted, and got drunk at home, shall grow 
splenetic in town in proportion to his wife's good- 
humour. Upon their arrival in London they ex- 
change their disorders. In consequence of her 
parties and excursions, he puts on the furred cap and 



360 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



scarlet stomacher, and perfectly resembles an In- 
dian husband, who, when his wife is safely de- 
livered, permits her to transact business abroad, 
while he undergoes all the formality of keeping 
his bed, and receiving all the condolence in her 
place. 

But those who reside constantly in town, owe 
this disorder mostly to the influence of the weather. 
It is impossible to describe what a variety of trans- 
mutations an east wind shall produce ; it has been 
known to change a lady of fashion into a parlour 
couch ; an alderman into a plate of custards ; and a 
dispenser of justice into a rat-trap. Even philoso- 
phers themselves are not exempt from its influence; 
it has often converted a poet into a coral and bells 
and a patriot senator into a dumb waiter. 

Some days ago I went to visit the man in black, 
and entered his house with that cheerfulness which 
the certainty of a favourable reception always in- 
spires. Upon opening the door of his apartment, 
I found him with the most rueful face imaginable, 
in a morning-gown and flannel night-cap, earnest- 
ly employed in learning to blow the German flute. 
Struck with the absurdity of a man in the decline 
of life thus blowing away all his constitution and 
spirits, even without the consolation of being mu- 
sical, I ventured to ask what could induce him to 
attempt learning so difficult an instrument so late 
in life ; to this he made no reply, but groaning, and 
still holding the flute to his lips, continued to gaze 
at me for some moments very angrily, and then 
proceeded to practise his gamut as before. After 
having produced a variety of the most hideous 
tones in nature, at last turning to me, he demand- 
ed, whether I did not think he had made a sur- 
prising progress in two days 1 " You see, con- 
tinues he, " I have got the ambusheer already ; and 
as for fingering, my master tells me, I shall have 
that in a few lessons more. I was so much astonish- 
ed with this instance of inverted ambition, that I 
knew not what to reply, but soon discerned the 
cause of all his absurdities ; my friend was under a 
metamorphosis by the power of spleen, and flute 
blowing was unluckily become his adventitious 
passion. 

In order, therefore, to banish his anxiety imper- 
ceptibly, by seeming to indulge it, I began to des- 
cant on those gloomy topics by which philosophers 
often get rid of their own spleen, by communicating 
it; the wretchedness of a man in this life; the hap 
piness of some wrought out of the miseries of 
others ; the necessities that wretches should expire 
under punishment, that rogues might enjoy afflu- 
ence in tranquillity ; I led him on from the inhu- 
manity of the rich to the ingratitude of the beggar; 
from the insincerity of refinement to the fierceness 
of rusticity ; and at last had the good fortune to 



restore him to his usual serenity of temper, by per- 
mitting him to expatiate upon all the modes of hu- 
man misery. 

Some nights ago," says my friend, " sitting 
alone by my fire, I happened to look into an account 
of a detection of a set of men called the thief- 
takers. I read over the many hideous cruelties of 
those haters of mankind, of their pretended friend- 
ship to wretches they meant to betray, of their 
sending men out to rob, and then hanging them. 
I could not avoid sometimes interrupting the narra- 
tive, by crying out, ' Yet these are men !' As I 
went on, I was informed that they had lived by this 
practice several years, and had been enriched by 
the price of blood ; ' And yet,' cried I, ' I have 
been sent into this world, and am desired to call 
these men my brothers !' I read, that the very man 
who led the condemned wretch to the gallows, was 
he who falsely swore his life away ; ' And yet,' 
continued I, 'that perjurer had just such a nose, 
such lips, such hands, and such eyes as Newton.' 
I at last came to the account of the wretch that 
was searched after robbing one of the thief-takers 
of half-a-crown. Those of the confederacy knew 
that he had got but that single half-crown in the 
world ; after a long search, therefore, which they 
knew would be fruitless, and taking from him the 
half-crown, which they knew was all he had, one 
of the gang compassionately cried out, ' Alas ! poo- 
creature, let him keep all the rest he has got, it 
will do him service in Newgate, where we are 
sending him.' This was an instance of such com- 
phcated guilt and hypocrisy, that I threw down the 
book in an agony of rage, and began to think with 
malice of all the human kind. I sat silent for some 
minutes, and soon perceiving the ticking of my 
watch beginning to grow noisy and troublesome, 
I quickly placed it out of hearing, and strove to re- 
sume my serenity. But the watchman soon gave 
me a second alarm. I had scarcely recovered from 
this, when my peace was assaulted by the wind 
at my window ; and when that ceased to blow, 
I listened for death-watches in the wainscot. I 
now found my whole system discomposed. I strove 
to find a resource in philosophy and reason ; but 
what could I oppose, or where direct my blow, 
when I could see no enemy to combat ? I saw no 
misery approaching, nor knew any I had to fear, 
yet still I was miserable. Morning came, I sought 
for tranquillity in dissipation, sauntered from one 
place of public resort to another, but found myself 
disagreeable to my acquaintance, and ridiculous to 
others. I tried at different times dancing, fencing, 
and riding ; I solved geometrical problems, shaped 
tobacco-stoppers, wrote verses, and cut paper. At 
last I placed my affections on music, and find, that 
earnest employment, if it can not cure, at least will 
palliate every anxiety." Adieu. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



361 



LETTER XCI. 



From the Same. 



It is no unpleasing contemplation, to consider 
the influence which soil and climate have upon the 
disposition of the inhabitants, the animals, and ve- 
getables, of different countries. That among the 
brute creation is much more visible than in man, 
and that in vegetables more than either. In some 
places, those plants which are entirely poisonous 
at home, lose their deleterious quahty by being 
carried abroad ; there are serpents in Macedonia so 
harmless as to be used as playthings for children ; 
and we are told that in some parts of Fez, there are 
lions so very timorous as to be scared away, though 
coming in herds, by the cries of women. 

I know of no country where the influence of cU- 
mate and soil is more visible than in England ; the 
same hidden cause which gives courage to their 
dogs and cocks, gives also fierceness to their men. 
But chiefly this ferocity appears among the vulgar. 
The polite of every country pretty nearly resem- 
ble each other. But, as in simpling, it is among 
the uncultivated productions of nature we are to 
examine the characteristic differences of climate 
and soil, so in an estimate of the genius of the 
people, we must look among the sons of unpolished 
rusticity. The vulgar English, therefore, may be 
easily distinguished from all the rest of the world, 
by superior pride, impatience, and a peculiar hardi- 
ness of soul. 

Perhaps no qualities in the world are more sus- 
ceptible of a finer polish than these ; artificial com- 
plaisance and easy deference being superinduced 
over these generally form a great character ; some- 
thing at once elegant and majestic; affable, yet 
sincere. Such, in general, are the better sort ; but 
they who are left in primitive rudeness are the 
least disposed for society with others, or comfort in- 
ternally, of any people under the sun. 

The poor indeed of every country, are but little 
prone to treat each other with tenderness ; their 
own miseries are too apt to engross all their pity; 
and perhaps too, they give but little commiseration, 
as they find but little from others. But in En- 
gland the poor treat each other upon every occa- 
sion with more than savage animosity, and as if 
they were in a state of open war by nature. In 
China, if two porters should meet in a narrow 
street, they would lay down their burdens, make a 
thousand excuses to each other for the accidental 
interruption, and beg pardon on their knees ; if two 
men of the same occupation should meet here, they 
would first begin to scold, and at last to beat each 
other. One would think they had miseries enough 
resultmg from penury and labour, not to increase, 



them by ill-nature among themselves, and subjec- 
tion to new penalties; but such considerations 
never weigh with them. 

But to recompense this strange absurdity, they 
are in the main generous, brave, and enterprising. 
They feel the slightest injuries with a degree of 
ungoverned impatience, but resist the greatest ca;- 
lamities with surprising fortitude. Those miseries 
under which any other people in the world would 
sink, they have often showed they were capable of 
enduring ; if accidentally cast upon some desolate 
coast, their perseverance is beyond what any other 
nation is capable of sustaining ; if imprisoned for 
crimes, their efforts to escape are greater than 
among others. The peculiar strength of their 
prisons, when compared to those elsewhere, ar- 
gues their hardiness ; even the strongest prisons I 
have ever seen in other countries would be very in- 
sufficient to confine the untameable spirit of an En- 
glishman. In short, what man dares do in cir- 
cumstances of danger, an Englishman will. His 
virtues seem to sleep in the calm, and are called out 
only to combat the kindred storm. 

But the greatest eulogy of this people is the 
generosity of their miscreants, the tenderness in 
general, of their robbers and highwaymen. Per- 
haps no people can produce instances of the same 
kind, where the desperate mix pity with injustice ; 
still showing that they understand a distinction in 
crimes, and, even in acts of violence, having still 
some tincture of remaining virtue. In every other 
country, robbery and murder go almost always to- 
gether; here it seldom happens, except upon ill- 
judged resistance or pursuit. The banditti of other 
countries are unmerciful to a supreme degree ; the 
highwayman and robber here are generous, at least, 
in their intercourse among each other. Taking, 
therefore, my opinion of the English from the vir- 
tues and vices practised among the vulgar, they at 
once present to a stranger all their faults, and keep 
their virtues up only for the inquiring eye of a phi- 
losopher. 

Foreigners are generally shocked at their inso- 
lence upon first coming among them ; they find 
themselves ridiculed and insulted in every street ; 
they meet with none of those trifling civilities, so 
frequent elsewhere, which are instances of mutual 
good-will, without previous acquaintance; they 
travel through the country, either too ignorant or 
too obstinate to cidtivate a closer acquaintance; 
meet every moment something to excite their dis- 
gust, and return home to characterise this as the 
region of spleen, insolence, and ill-nature. In short, 
England would be the last place in the world I 
would travel to by way of amusement, but the first 
for instruction. I would choose to have others for 
my acquaintance, but Englismen for my friends. 



362 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



LETTER XCIL 



From the Same. 



The mind is ever ingenious in making its own 
distress. The wandering beggar who has none to 
protect, to feed, or to shelter him, fancies complete 
happiness in labour and a full meal ; take him from 
rags and want, feed, clothe, and employ him, his 
wishes now rise one step above his station ; he 
could be happy were he possessed of raiment, food, 
and ease. Suppose his wishes gratified even in 
these, his prospects vsdden as he ascends ; he finds 
himself in affluence and tranquillity indeed, but in 
dolence soon breeds anxiety, and he desires not only 
to be freed from pain, but to be possessed of pleasure; 
pleasure is granted him, and this but opens his soul 
to ambition ; and ambition will be sure to taint his 
future happiness, either with jealousy, disappoint- 
ment, or fatigue. 

But of all the arts of distress found out by man 
for his own torment, perhaps that of philosophic 
misery is most truly ridiculous ; a passion nowhere 
carried to so extravagant an excess as in the coun- 
try where I now reside. It is not enough to engage 
all the compassion of a philosopher here, that his 
own globe is harrassed with wars, pestilence, or 
barbarity ; he shall grieve for the inhabitants of the 
moon, if the situation of her imaginary mountains 
happens to alter ; and dread the extinction of the 
sun, if the spots on his surface happens to increase. 
One should imagine, that philosophy was introduc- 
ed tomalie men happy; but here it serves to make 
hundreds miserable. 

My landlady, some days ago, brought the diary 
of a philosopher of this desponding sort, who had 
lodged in the apartment before me. It contains the 
history of a life, which seems to be one continued 
tissue of sorrow, apprehension and distress. A sm- 
gle week will serve as a specimen of the whole. 

Monday. In what a transient decaying situation 
are we placed ; and what various reasons does phi- 
losophy furnish to make mankind unhappy ! A 
single grain of mustard shall continue to produce 
its similitude through numberless successions ; 
yet, what has been granted to this Uttle seed, has 
been denied to our planetary system ; the mustard 
seed is still unaltered, but the system is growing 
old, and must quickly fall to decay. How terrible 
will it be, when the motions of all the planets have 
at last become so irregular as to need repairing ; 
when the moon shall fall into frightful paroxysms 
of alteration; when the earth, deviating from its an- 
cient track, and with every other planet forgetting 
its circular revolutions, shall become so eccentric, 
that unconfined by the laws of system, it shall fly 
ofiF into boundless space, to knock against some dis- 
tant world, or fall in upon the sun, either extin- 
guishing his light, or burned up by his flames in a 



moment! Perhaps, while I write, this dreadfid 
change has begun. Shield me from universal 
ruin! Yet, idiot man laughs, sings, and rejoices, in 
the very face of the sun, and seems no way touch- 
ed with his situation. 

Tuesday. Went to bed in great distress, awaked 
and was comforted, by considering that this change 
was to happen at some indefinite time ; and there- 
fore, like death, the thoughts of it might easily be 
borne. But there is a revolution, a fixed deter- 
mined revolution, which must certainly come to 
pass ; yet which, by good fortune, I shall never feel, 
except in my posterity. The obliquity of the equa- 
tor with the ecliptic is now twenty minutes less 
than when it was observed two thousand years ago 
by Piteas. If this be the case, in six thousand the 
obliquity will be still less by a whole degree. This 
being supposed, it is evident that our earth, as 
Louville has clearly proved, has a motion, by which 
the climates must necessarily change place, and, in 
the space of about one million of years, England 
shall actually travel to the Antarctic pole. I shud- 
der at the change! How shall our unhappy grand- 
children endure the hideous climate ! A million of 
years will soon be accomplished ; they are but a 
moment when compared to eternity; then shall our 
charming country, as I may say, in a moment of 
time, resemble the hideous wilderness of Nova 
Zembla ! 

Wednesday. To-night, by my calculation, the 
long predicted comet is to make its first appearance. 
Heavens ! what terrors are impending over our lit- 
tle dim speck of earth! Dreadful visitation! Are 
we to be scorched in its fires, or only smothered in 
the vapour of its tail? That is the question! 
Thoughtless mortals, go build houses, plant or- 
chards, purchase estates, for to-morrow you die. 
But what if the comet should not come? That 
would be equally fatal. Comets are servants which 
periodically return to supply the sun with fuel. If 
our sun, therefore, should be disappointed of the 
expected supply, and all his fuel be in the meantime 
burnt out, he must expire like an exhausted taper. 
What a miserable situation must our earth be in 
without his enlivening rays! Have we not seen 
several neighbouring suns entirely disappear? Has 
not a fixed star, near the tail of the Ram, lately 
been quite extinguished? 

Thursday. The comet has not yet appeared ; I 
am sorry for it : first, sorry because my calculation 
is false ; secondly, sorry lest the sun should want 
fuel ; thirdly, sorry lest the wits should laugh at our 
erroneous predictions ; and fourthly, sorry because, 
if it appears to-night, it must necessarily come 
within the sphere of the earth's attraction; and 
Heaven help the unhappy country on which it hap- 
pens to fall ! 

Friday. Our whole society have been out, all 
eager in search of the comet. We have seen not 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



363 



less than sixteen comets in •different parts of the 
heavens. However, we are unanimously resolved 
to fix upon one only to be the comet expected. 
That near Virgo wants nothing but a tail to fit it 
out completely for terrestrial admiration. 

Saturday. The moon is, I find, at her old 
pranks. Her appulses, librations, and other irre- 
gularities, indeed amaze me. My daughter, too, is 
this morning gone off with a grenadier. No way 
surprising ; I was never able to give her a relish for 
wisdom. She ever promised to be a mere expletive 
in the creation. But the moon, the moon gives me 
real uneasiness ; I fondly fancied I had fixed her. 
I had thought her constant, and constant only to 
me ; but every night discovers her infidelity, and 
proves me a desolate and abandoned lover. Adieu. 



LETTER XCIII. 



From the Same. 



It is surprising what an influence titles shall 
have upon the mind, even though these titles be 
of our own making. Like children, we dress up 
the puppets in finery, and then stand in astonish- 
ment at the plastic wonder. 1 have been told of a 
rat-catcher here, who strolled for a long time about 
the villages near town, without finding any em- 
ployment ; at last, however, he thought proper to 
take the title of his Majesty's rat-catcher in ordi- 
nary, and this succeeded beyond his expectations : 
when it was known that he caught rats at court, 
all were ready to give him countenance and em- 
ployment. 

But of all the people, they who make books seem 
most perfectly sensible of the advantages of titular 
dignity. All seem convinced, that a book written 
by vulgar hands, can neither instruct nor improve ; 
none but kings, chams, and mandarines, can write 
with any probability of success. If the titles in- 
form me right, not only kings and courtiers, but 
emperors themselves, in this country, periodically 
supply the press. 

A man here who should write, and honestly con- 
fess that he wrote for bread, might as well send his 
manuscript to fire the baker's oven ; not one crea- 
ture will read him : all must be court-bred poets, or 
pretend at least to be court-bred, who can expect to 
please. Should the caitiff fairly avow a design of 
emptying our pockets and filling his own, every 
reader would instantly forsake him; even those 
who write for bread themselves would combine to 
worry him, perfectly sensible that his attempts 
only served to take the bread out of their mouths. 

And yet this silly prepossession the more amazes 
me, when I consider, that almost all the excellent 
productions in wit that have appeared here, were 
purely the offspring of necessity; their Drydens, 



Butlers, Otways, and Farquhars, were all writers 
for bread. Believe me, my friend, hunger has a 
most amazing faculty of sharpening the genius; 
and he who, with a full belly, can think like a hero, 
after a course of fasting, shall rise to the sublimity 
of a demi-god. 

But what will most amaze is, that this very set 
of men, who are now so much depreciated by fools, 
are, however, the very best writers they have 
among them at present. For my own part, were 
I to buy a hat, I would not have it from a stocking- 
maker, but a hatter ; were I to buy .shoes, I should 
not go to the tailor's for that purpose. It is just so 
with regard to wit : did I, for my life, desire to be 
well served, I would apply only to those who made 
it their trade, and lived by it. You smile at the 
oddity of my opinion; but be assured, my friend, 
that wit is, in some measure, mechanical ; and that 
a man, long habituated to catch at even its resem- 
blance, will at last be happy enough to possess the 
substance. By a long habit of writing he acquires 
a justness of thinking, and a mastery of manner, 
which holiday writers, even with ten times his 
genius, may vainly attempt to equal. 

How then are they deceived who expect from 
title, dignity, and exterior circumstance, an excel- 
lence which is in some measure acquired by habit, 
and sharpened by necessity? You have seen, 
like me, many Hterary reputations promoted by the 
influence of fashion, which have scarcely survived 
the possessor ; you have seen the poor hardly earn 
the little reputation they acquired, and their merit 
only acknowledged when they were incapable of 
enjoying the pleasures of popularity : such, howev- 
er, is the reputation worth possessing ; that which 
is hardly earned is hardly lost. Adieu. 



LETTER XCIV. 

From Hingpo, in Moscow, to Lien Chi Altangi, In London. 

Where will my disappointments end 1 Must 
1 still be doomed to accuse the severity of my for- 
tune, and show my constancy in distress, rather 
than moderation in prosperity? I had at least hopes 
of conveying my charming companion safe from 
the reach of every enemy, and of again restoring 
her to her native soil. But those hopes are now 
no more. 

Upon leaving Terki, we took the nearest road 
to the dominions of Russia. We passed the Ural 
mountains, covered with eternal snow, and tra- 
versed the forest of Ufa, where the prowling bear 
and shrieking hyena keep an undisputed posses- 
sion. We next embarked upon the rapid river 
Bulija, and made the best of our way to the banks 
of the Wolga, where it waters the fruitful valleys 
of Casan. 



364 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



There were two vessels in company properly 
equipped and armed, in order to oppose the Wolga 
pirates, who, we were informed, infested this river. 
Of all mankind these pirates are the most terrible. 
They are composed of the criminals and outlawed 
peasants of Russia, who fly to the forests that lie 
along the banks of Wolga for protection. Here 
they join in parties, lead a savage life, and have no 
other subsistence but plunder. Being deprived of 
houses, friends, or a iSxed habitation, they become 
more terrible even than the tiger, and as insensible 
to all the feehngs of humanity. They neither give 
quarter to those they conquer, nor receive it when 
overpowered themselves. The severity of the laws 
against them serves to increase their barbarity, and 
seems to make them a neutral species of being, be- 
tween the wilderness of the lion, and the subtlety 
of the man. When taken alive their punishment 
is hideous. A floating gibbet is erected, which is 
let run down with the stream : here, upon an iron 
hook stuck under their ribs, and upon which the 
whole weight of their body depends, they are left 
to expire in the most terrible agonies, some being 
thus found to linger several days successively. 

We were but three days' voyage from the con- 
fluence of this river into the Wolga, when we per- 
ceived at a distance behind us an armed bark com- 
ing up, with the assistance of sails and oars, in 
order to attack us. The dreadful signal of death 
was hung upon the mast, and our captain, with 
his glass, could easily discern them to be pirates. 
It is impossible to express our consternation on this 
occasion ; the whole crew instantly came together 
to consult the properest means of safety. It was, 
therefore, soon determined to send oflF our women 
and valuable commodities in one of our vessels, 
and that the men should stay in the other, and 
boldly oppose the enemy. This resolution was 
soon put into execution, and I now reluctantly 
parted from the beautiful Zelis for the first time 
since our retreat from Persia. The vessel in which 
she was disappeared to my longing eyes, in pro- 
portion as that of the pirates approached us. 
They soon came up; but upon examining our 
strength, and perhaps sensible of the manner in 
which we had sent off our most valuable effects, 
they seemed more eager to pursue the vessel we 
had sent away than attack us. In this manner 
they continued to harrass us for three days, still 
endeavouring to pass us without fighting. But, on 
the fourth day, finding it entirely impossible, and 
despairing to seize the expected booty, they desisted 
from their endeavours, and left us to pursue our 
voyage without interruption. 

Our joy on this occasion was great ; but soon a 
disappointment more terrible, because unexpected, 
succeeded. The bark in which our women and 
treasure were sent oflf was wrecked upon the banks 
of the Wolga, for want of a proper number of 



hands to manage her, and the whole crew carried 
by the peasants up the country. Of this, however, 
we were not sensible till our arrival at Moscow; 
where, expecting to meet our separated bark, we 
were informed of its misfortune, and our loss. 
Need I paint the situation of my mind on this oc- 
casion 1 Need I describe all I feel, when I despair 
of beholding the beautiful ZeUs more ? Fancy 
had dressed the future prospect of my hfe in. the 
gayest colouruig; but one unexpected stroke of 
fortune has robbed it of every charm. Her dear idea 
mixes with every scene of pleasure, and without 
her presence to enhven it, the whole becomes te- 
dious, insipid, insupportable. I will confess — now 
that she is lost, I will confess I loved her : nor is it 
in the power of time, or of reason, to erase her 
image from my heart. Adieu. 



LETTER XCV. , 
From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, at Moscow.* 

Your misfortunes are mine ; but, as every pe- 
riod of hfe is marked with its own, you must learn 
to endure them. Disappointed love makes the 
misery of youth; disappointed ambition, that of 
manhood ; and successless avarice, that of age. 
Tliese three attack us through life ; and it is our 
duty to stand upon our guard. To love, we ought 
to oppose dissipation, and endeavour to change the 
object of the affections ; to ambition, the happiness 
of indolence and obscurity ; and to avarice the fear 
of soon dying. These are the shields with which 
we should arm ourselves; and thus make every 
scene of life, if not pleasing, at least supportable. 

Men complain of not finding a place of repose. 
They are in the wrong ; they have it for seeking. 
What they should indeed complain of is, that the 
heart is an enemy to that very repose they seek. 
To themselves alone should they impute their dis- 
content. They seek within the short span of hfe 
to satisfy a thousand desires : each of which alone 
is insatiable. One month passes, and another 
comes on ; the year ends, and then begins ; but 
man is still unchanging in folly, still blindlj' con- 
tinuing in prejudice. To the wise man, every cli- 
mate, and every soil is pleasing : to him a parterre 
of flowers is the famous valley of gold ; to him a 
little brook, the fountain of the young peach trees ; 
to such a man, the melody of birds is more ravish- 
ing than the harmony of a full concert ; and the 
tincture of the cloud preferable to the touch of the 
finest pencil. 

The life of man is a journey ; a journey that must 



* This letter is a raphsody from die maxims of the philoso- 
pher Me. Vide Lett, curieuse et edifiante. Vide etiam Pu 
Halde, Vol. IL p. 98. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



be travelled, however bad the roads or the accom- 
modation. If, in the beginning, it is found dan- 
gerous, narrow, and difficult, it must either grow 
better in the end, or we shall, by custom, learn to 
bear its inequality. 

But, though I see you incapable of penetrating 
into grand principles, attend at least to a simile, 
adapted to every apprehension. I am mounted 
upon a wretched ass, I see another man before me 
upon a sprightly horse, at which I find some un 
easiness. I look behind me, and see numbers on 
foot, stooping under heavy burdens : let me learn 
to pity their estate, and thank Heaven for my 
own. 

Shingfu, when under misfortunes, would, in the 
beginning, weep like a child ; but he soon recover 
ed his former tranquillity. After indulging grief 
for a few days, he would become, as usual, the 
most merry old man in all the province of Shansi 
About the time that his wife died, his possessions 
were all consumed by fire, and his only son sold 
into captivity ; Shingfu grieved for one day, and 
the next went to dance at a mandarine's door for 
his dinner. The company were surprised to see 
the old man so merry, when suffering such great 
losses; and the mandarine himself coming out, 
asked him, how he, who had grieved so much, and 
given way to the calamity the day before, could 
now be so cheerfun " You ask me one question," 
cries the old man, "let me answer, by asking 
another: Which is the most durable, a hard thing, 
or a soft thing; that which resists, or that which 
makes no resistance?" — "A hard thing, to be 
sure," replied the mandarine. "There you are 
wrong," returned Shingfu, " I am now fourscore 
years old; and, if you look in my mouth, you will 
find that I have lost all my teeth, but not a bit of 
my tongue." Adieu. 



LETTER XCVL 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of tlie 
Ceremonial Academy at Peljin, in Cliina. 

The manner of grieving for our departed friends 
in China is very different from that of Europe. 
The mourning colour of Europe is black ; that of 
China white. When a parent or relation dies 
here, for they seldom mourn for friends, it is only 
clapping on a suit of sables, grimacing it for a few 
days, and all, soon forgotten, goes on as before; 
not a single creature missing the deceased, ex- 
cept, perhaps, a favourite housekeeper, or a favour- 
ite cat. 

On the contrary, with us in China it is a very 
serious affair. The piety with which I have seen 
you behave, on one of these occasions, should never 
be forgotten. I remember it was upon the death 



of thy grandmother's maiden sister. The cofiin 
was exposed in the principal hall, in public view. 
Before it were placed the figures of eunuchs, 
horses, tortoises, and other animals, in attitudes of 
grief and respect. The more distant relations of 
the old lady, and I among the number, came to pay 
our compliments of condolence, and to salute the 
deceased, after the manner of our country. We 
had scarcely presented our wax-candles and per- 
fumes, and given the howl of departure, when, 
crawling on his belly from under a curtain, out 
came the reverend Fum Hoam himself, in all the 
dismal solemnity of distress. Your looks were set 
for sorrow ; your clothing consisted of a hempen 
bag tied round the neck with a string. For two 
long months did this mourning continue. By 
night, you lay stretched on a single mat, and sat on 
the stool of discontent by day. Pious man ! wh& 
could thus set an example of sorrow and decorum 
to our country. Pious country ! where, if we do 
not grieve at the departure of our friends for their 
sakes, at least we are taught to regret them for our 
own. 

All is very different here ; amazement all ! What 
sort of a people am I got amongst? Fum, thou son 
of Fo, what sort of people am I got amongst? No 
crawling round the coffin; no dressing up in 
hempen bags ; no lying on mats, or sitting on stools t 
Gentlemen here shall put on first mourning with 
as sprightly an air as ifpreparing for a birth-night; 
and widows shall actually dress for another husband 
in their weeds for the former. The best jest of all 
is, that our merry mourners clap bits of muslin on 
their sleeves, and these are called weepers. Weep- 
ing muslin ! alas, alas ! very sorrowful truly ! These 
weepers, then, it seems, are to bear the whole 
burden of the distress. 

But I have had the strongest instance of this 
contrast, this tragi-comical behaviour in distress, 
upon a recent occasion. Their king, whose de- 
parture, though sudden, was not unexpected, died 
after a reign of many years. His age, and uncer- 
tain state of health, served, in some measure, to 
diminish the sorrow of his subjects; and their ex-- 
pectations from his successor seemed to balance 
their minds between uneasiness and satisfaction. 
But how ought they to have behaved on such an 
occasion? Surely, they ought rather to have en- 
deavoured to testify there gratitude to their de- 
ceased friend, than to proclaim their hopes of the 
future ! Surely, even the successor must suppose 
their love to wear the face of adulation, which so 
quickly changed the object! However, the very 
same day on which the old king died, they made 
rejoicings for the new. 

For my part, I have no conception of this new 
manner of mourning and rejoicing in a breath; of 
being merry and sad ; of mixing a funeral proces- 
sion with a jig and a bonfire. At least, it would 



366 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



have been just, that they who flattered the king 
while Uving, for virtues which he had not, should 
lament him dead, for those he really had. 

In this universal cause for national distress, as I 
had no interest myself, so it is but natural to sup- 
pose I felt no real affliction. "In all the losses of 
our friends," says an European philosopher, " we 
first consider how much our own welfare is affected 
by their departure, and moderate our real grief just 
in the same proportion." Now, as I had neither 
received, nor expected to receive, favours from 
kings or their flatterers ; as I had no acquaintance 
in particular with their late monarch ; as I knew 
that the place of a king is soon supplied,- and, as 
the Chinese proverb has it, that though the world 
may sometimes want cobblers to mend their shoes, 
there is no danger of its wanting emperors to rule 
their kingdoms : from such considerations, I could 
bear the loss of a king with the most philosophic 
resignation. However, I thought it my duty at 
least to appear sorrowful ; to put on a melancholy 
aspect, or to set my face by that of the people. 

The first company I came amongst after the 
news became general, was a set of jolly companions, 
who were drinking prosperity to the ensuing reign. 
I entered the room with looks of despair, and even 
expected applause for the superlative misery of my 
countenance. Instead of that, 1 was universally 
condemned by the company for a grimacing son of 
a whore, and desired to take away my penitential 
phiz to some other quarter. I now corrected my 
former mistake, and, with the most sprightly air 
imaginable, entered a company, where they were 
talking over the ceremonies of the approaching 
funeral. Here I sat for some time with an air of 
pert vivacity; when one of the chief mourners, im- 
mediately observing my good-humour, desired me, 
if I pleased, to go and grin somewhere else; they 
wanted no disaffected scoundrels there. Leaving 
this company, therefore, I was resolved to assume 
a look perfectly neutral ; and have ever since been 
studying the fashionable air; something between 
jest and earnest; a complete virginity of face, 
uncontaminated with the smallest symptom of 
meaning. 

But though grief be a very slight affair here, the 
mourning, my friend, is a very important concern. 
When an emperor dies in China, the whole ex- 
pense of the solemnities is defrayed from the royal 
coffers. When the great die here, mandarines are 
ready enough to order mourning ; but I do not see 
they are so ready to pay for it. If they send me 
down from court the gray undress frock, or the 
black coat without pocket holes, I am willing 
enough to comply with their commands, and wear 
both ; but, by the head of Confucius ! to be obUged 
to wear black, and buy it into the bargain, is more 
than my tranquillity of temper can bear. What, 
order me to wear mourning, before they know 



whether I can buy it or no ! Fum, thou son of 
Fo, what sort of a people am I got amongst? where 
being out of black is a certain symptom of poverty ; 
where those who have miserable faces cannot have 
mourning, and those who have mourning will not 
wear a miserable face ! Adieu. 



LETTER XCVII. 



Prom the Same. 



It is usual for the booksellers here, when a book 
has given universal pleasure upon one subject, to 
bring out several more upon the same plan ; which 
are sure to have purchasers and readers, from that 
desire which all men have to view a pleasing ob- 
ject on every side. The first performance serves 
rather to awaken than satisfy attention ; and, when 
that is once moved, the slightest effort serves to 
continue its progression : the merit of the first dif- 
fuses a light sufficient to illuminate the succeeding 
efforts, and no other subject can be relished, till 
that is exhausted. A stupid work coming thus 
immediately in the train of an applauded perform- 
ance, weans the mind from the object of its pleasure ; 
and resembles the sponge thrust into the mouth of 
a discharged culverin, in order to adapt it for a 
new explosion. 

This manner, however, of drawing off a subject, 
or a peculiar mode of writing to the dregs, effectu- 
ally precludes a revival of that subject or manner 
for some time for the future; the sated reader turns 
from it with a kind of literary nausea ; and though 
the titles of books are the part of them most read, 
yet he has scarcely perseverance enough to wade 
through the title-page. 

Of this number, I own myself one : I am now 
grown callous to several subjects, and different 
kinds of composition. Whether such originally 
pleased I will not talie upon me to determine ; but 
at present I spurn a new book, merely upon seeing 
its name in an advertisement ; nor have the small- 
est curiosity to look beyond the first leaf, even 
though, in the second, the author promises his own 
face neatly engraved on copper. 

I am become a perfect epicure in reading; plain 
beef or solid mutton will never do. I am for a Chi- 
nese dish of bear's claws and birds' nests. I am 
for sauce strong with assafoetida, or fuming with 
garlic. For this reason there are a hundred very 
wise, learned, virtuous, well-intended productions, 
that have no charms for me. Thus, for the soul of 
me, I could never find courage nor grace enough to 
wade above two pages deep into " Thoughts upon 
God and Nature;" or "Thoughts upon Provi- 
dence;" or " Thoughts upon Free Grace;" or in- 
deed into thoughts upon any thing at all. I can 
no longer meditate with meditations for every day 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



367 



in the year. Essays upon divers subjects can not 
allure me, though never so interesting ; and as for 
funeral sermons, or even thanksgiving sermons, I 
can neither weep with the one, nor rejoice with the 
other. 

But it is chiefly in gentle poetry, where I seldom 
look farther than the title. The truth is, 1 take up 
books to be told something new; but here, as it is 
now managed, the reader is told nothing. He opens 
the book, and there finds very good words truly, 
and much exactness of rhyme, but no information, 
A parcel of gaudy images pass on before his imagi- 
nation like the figures in a dream; but curiosity, 
induction, reason, and the whole train of affections, 
are fast asleep. The jucunda et idonea vitm ; 
those sallies which mend the heart, while they 
amuse the fancy, are quite forgotten: so that a 
reader, who would take up some modern applauded 
performances of this kind, must, in order to be pleas- 
ed, first leave his good sense behind him, take for 
his recompense and guide bloated and compound 
epithet, and dwell on paintings, just indeed, because 
laboured with minute exactness. 

If we examine, however, our internal sensations, 
we shall find ourselves but httle pleased with such 
laboured vanities; we shall find that our applause 
rather proceeds from a kind of contagion caught up 
from others, and which we contribute to diffuse, than 
from what we privately feel. There are some sub- 
jects of which almost all the world perceive the fu- 
tility; yet all contribute in imposing them upon each 
other, as worthy of praise. But chiefly this imposition 
obtains in literature, where men publicly contemn 
what they reUsh with rapture in private, and ap- 
prove abroad what has given disgust at home. The 
truth is, we deliver those criticisms in public which 
are supposed to be best calculated not to do justice 
to the author, but to impress others with an opin- 
ion of our superior discernment. 

But let works of this kind, which have already 
come off with such applause, enjoy it all. It is 
not my wish to diminish, as I was never considera- 
ble enough to add to their fame. But, for the fu- 
ture, I fear there are many poems of which I shall 
find spirits to read but the title. In the first place, 
all odes upon winter, or summer, or autumn ; in 
short, all odes, epodes, and monodies whatsoever, 
shall hereafter be deemed too polite, classical, ob- 
scure, and refined to be read, and entirely above hu- 
man comprehension. Pastorals are pretty enough — 
for those that Uke them ; but to me, Thyrsis is one 
of the most insipid fellows I ever conversed with ; 
and as for Corydon, I do not choose his company. 
Elegies and epistles are very fine to those to whom 
they are addressed ; and as for epic poems, I am 
generally able to discover the whole plan in reading 
the two first pages. 

Tragedies, however, as they are now made, are 
good instructive moral sermons enough; and it 



would be a fault not to be pleased with good things. 
There I learn several great truths : as, that it is im- 
possible to see into the ways of futurity; that pu- 
nishment always attends the villain ; that love is 
the fond soother of the human breast; that we 
should not resist Heaven's will, — for in resisting 
Heaven's will Heaven's will is resisted ; with se- 
veral other sentiments equally new, delicate, and 
striking. Every new tragedy, therefore, I shall go 
to see ; for reflections of this nature make a tdliera- 
ble harmony, when mixed up with a proper quan- 
tity of drum, trumpet, thunder, lightning, or the 
scene-shifter's whistle. Adieu. 



LETTER XCVIII. 



From the Same. 



I HAD some intentions lately of going to visit 
Bedlam, the place where those who go mad are 
confined. I went to wait upon the man in black 
to be my conductor, but I found him preparing to 
'go to Westminster hall, where the English hold 
their courts of justice. It gave me some surprise 
to find my friend engaged in a law-suit, but more 
so when he informed me that it had been depend- 
ing for several years. " How is it possible," cried 
I, "for a man who knows the world to go to lawl 
I am well acquainted with the courts of justice in 
China, they resemble rat-traps every one of them, 
nothing more easy than to get in, but to get out 
again is attended vdth some difficulty, and more 
cunning than rats are generally found to possess!" 

"Faith," replied my friend, "I should not have 
gone to law, but that I was assured of success be- 
fore I began ; things were presented to me in so 
alluring a Ught, that I thought by barely declaring 
myself a candidate for the prize, I had nothing more 
to do than to enjoy the fruits of the victory. Thus 
have I been upon the eve of an imaginary triumph 
every term these ten years ; have travelled forward 
with victory ever in my view, but ever out of reach; 
however, at present, I fancy we have hampered 
our antagonist in such a manner, that, without 
some unforeseen demur, we shall this very day lay 
him fairly on his back." 

' If things be so situated," said I, " I don't care 
if I attend you to the courts, and partake in the 
pleasure of your success. But prithee," continued 
I, as we set forward, " what reasons have you to 
think an affair at last concluded, which has given 
you so many former disappointments?" — "My 
lawyer tells me," returned he, " that I have Salkeld 
and Ventris strong in my favour, and that there 
are no less than fifteen cases in point." — " I vmder- 
stand," said I, " those are two of your judges who 
have already declared their opinions." — " Pardon 
me," repUed my friend, "Salkeld and Ventris are 



368 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



lawyers, who some hundred years ago gave their 
opinions on cases similar to mine ; these opinions 
which make for me my lawyer is to cite ; and those 
opinions which look another way are cited by the 
lawyer employed by my antagonist : as I observed, 
I have Salkeld and Ventris for me, he has Coke 
and Hale for him ; and he that has most opinions 
is most likely to carry his cause." — " But where is 
the necessity," cried I, '• of prolonging a suit by 
citing the opuiions and reports of others, since the 
same good sense which determined lawyers in for- 
mer ages may serve to guide your judges at this 
day 1 They at that time gave their opinions only 
from the hght of reason ; your judges have the 
same light at present to direct them ; let me even 
add, a greater, as in former ages there were many 
prejudices from which the present is happily free. 
If arguing from authorities be exploded from every 
other branch of learning, why should it be par- 
ticularly adhered to in this ? I plainly foresee how 
such a method of investigation must embarrass 
every suit, and even perplex the student ; ceremo- 
nies will be multiplied, formalities must increase, 
and more time will thus be spent in learning 
the arts of litigation than in the discovery of 
right." 

"I see," cries my friend, "that you are for a 
speedy administration of justice ; but all the world 
■will grant, that the more time that is taken up in 
considering any subject, the better it will be un- 
derstood. Besides, it is the boast of an Enghsh- 
man, that his property is secure, and ail the world 
,will grant that a deliberate administration of justice 
is the best way to secure his property. Why have 
we so many lawyers, but to secure our property ? 
why so many formalities, but to secure our proper- 
ty ? Not less than one hundred thousand families 
live in opulence, elegance, and ease, merely by se- 
curing our property." 

" To embarrass justice," returned I, "by a mul- 
tiplicity of laws, or to hazard it by a confidence in 
our judges, are, I grant, the opposite rocks on 
which legislative wisdom has ever spht : in one 
case, the client resembles that emperor, who is said 
to have been suffocated with the bed-clothes which 
were only designed to keep him warm ; in the 
other, to that town which let the enemy take pos- 
session of its walls, in order to show the world how 
little they depended upon aught but courage for 
safety. — But, bless me! what numbers do I see 
here — all in black ! — how is it possible that half 
this multitude can find employment 1" — " Nothing 
so easily conceived," returned my companion; 
"they live by watching each other. For instance, 
the catchpole watches the man in debt, the attorney 
watches the catchpole, the counsellor watches the 
attorney, the soUcitor the counsellor, and all find 
sufficient employment." — "I conceive you," inter- 
rupted I, " they watch each other, but it is the client 



that pays them all for watching ; it puts me in mind 
of a Chinese fable, which is entitled Five Animals 
at a Meal. 

" A grasshopper, filled with dew, was merrily 
singing under a shade; a whangam, that eats 
grasshoppers, had marked it for its prey, and was 
just stretching forth to devour it; a serpent, that 
had for a long time fed only on whangams, was 
coiled up to fasten on the whangam ; a yellow bird 
was just upon the wing to dart upon the serpent ; 
a hawk had just stooped from above to seize the 
yellow bird; all were intent on their prey, and un- 
mindful of their danger ; so the whangham ate the 
grasshopper, the serpent ate the whangam, the yel- 
low bird the serpent, and the hawk the yellow 
bird; when, sousing from on high, a vulture gob- 
bled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all, 
in a moment." 

I had scarcely finished my fable, when the law- 
yer came to inform my friend, that his cause was 
put off till another term, that money was wanting 
to retain, and that all the world was of opinion, 
that the very next hearing would bring him off 
victorious. " If so, then," cries my friend, " I be- 
lieve it will be my wisest way to continue the cause 
for another term; and, in the mean time, my friend 
here and I will go and see Bedlam." Adieu. 



LETTER XCIX. 

From the Same. 

I LATELY received a visit from the little beau, 
who, I found, had assumed a new flow of spirits 
with a new suit of clothes. Our discourse hap- 
pened to turn upon the different treatment of the 
fair sex here and in Asia, with the influence of 
beauty in refining our manners, and improving our 
conversation. 

I soon perceived he was strongly prejudiced in 
favour of the Asiatic method of treating the sex, 
and that it was impossible to persuade him but 
that a man was happier who had four wives at his 
command, than he who had only one. " It is true," 
cries he, "your men of fashion in the East are 
slaves, and under some terrors of having their 
throats squeezed by a bow-string; but what thenl 
they can find ample consolation in a seraglio : they 
make, indeed, an indifferent figure in conversation 
abroad, but then they have a seraglio to console 
them at home. I am told they have no balls, 
drums, nor operas, but then they have got a se- 
raglio ; they may be deprived of wine and French 
cookery, but they have a seragUo: a seraglio — a 
seraglio, my dear creature, wipes off every incon- 
venience in the world ! 

"Besides, I am told your Asiatic beauties are 
the most convenient women alive, for they have no 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



369 



souls ; positively there is nothing in nature I should 
like so much as ladies without souls; soul, here, is 
the utter ruin of half the sex. A girl of eighteen 
shall have soul enough to spend a hundred pounds 
in the turning of a trump. Her mother shall have 
soul enough to ride a sweepstake match at a horse- 
race ; her maiden aunt shall have soul enough to 
purchase the furniture of a whole toy -shop ; and 
others shall have soul enough to behave as if they 
had no souls at all." 

" With respect to the soul," interrupted I, "the 
Asiatics are much kinder to the fair sex than you 
imagine: instead of one soul, Fohi, the idol of 
China, gives every woman three ; the Brahmins 
give them fifteen; and even Mahomet himself 
nowhere excludes the sex from Paradise. Abulfeda 
reports, that an old woman one day importuning him 
to know what she ought to do in order to gain 
Paradise 1 — " My good lady," answered the pro- 
phet, " old women never get there." — " What ! 
never get to Paradise !" returned the matron in a 
fury. " Never," says he, " for they always grow 
young by the way." 

" No, sir," continued I, " the men of Asia be- 
have with more deference to the sex than you seem 
to imagine. As you of Europe say grace upon 
sitting dovra to dinner, so it is the custom in China 
to say grace when a man goes to bed to his wife." 
— "And may I die," retui'ned my companion, 
" but it is a very pretty ceremony ! for, seriously, 
sir, I see no reason why a man should not be as 
grateful in one situation as in the other. Upon 
honour, I always find myself much more disposed 
to gratitude on the couch of a fine woman, than 
upon sitting down to a sirloin of beef." 

"Another ceremony," said I, resuming the con- 
versation, " in favour of the sex, amongst us, is 
the bride's being allowed, after marriage, her three 
days of freedom. During this interval, a thousand 
extravagancies are practised by either sex. The 
lady is placed upon the nuptial bed, and number- 
less monkey-tricks are played round to divert her. 
One gentleman smells her perfumed handkerchief, 
another attempts to untie her garters, a third pulls 
off her shoe to play hunt the slipper, another pre- 
tends to be an ideot, and endeavours to raise a 
laugh by grimacing ; in the mean time, the glass 
goes briskly about, till ladies, gentlemen, wife, hus- 
band, and all, are mixed together in one inunda- 
tion of arrack punch." 

" Strike me dumb, deaf, and blind," cried my 
companion, "but that's very pretty! there's some 
sense in your Chinese ladies' condescensions ! but, 
among us, you shall scarce find one of the whole 
sex that shall hold her good humour for three days 
together. No later than yesterday, I happened to 
say some civil things to a citizen's wife of my ac- 
quaintance, not because I loved her, but because I 
had charitv ; and what do you think was the ten- 
34 



der creature's reply? Only that she detested my 
pig-tail vng, high-heeled shoes, and sallow com- 
plexion! That is aU. Nothing more !— Yes, by the 
Heavens, though she was more ugly than an un- 
painted actress, I found her more insolent than a 
thorough-bred woman of quality !" 

He was proceeding in this wild manner, when 
his invective was interrupted by the man in black, 
who entered the apartment, introducing his niece, 
a young lady of exquisite beauty. Her very ap- 
pearance was sufficient to silence the severest sati- 
rist of the sex : easy without pride, and free with- 
out impudence, she seemed capable of supplying 
every sense with pleasure ; her looks, her conver- 
sation, were natural and unconstrained ; she had 
neither been taught to languish nor ogle, to laugh 
wdthout a jest, or sigh without sorrow. I found 
that she had just returned from abroad, and had 
been conversant in the manners of the world. 
Curiosity prompted me to ask several questions, 
but she declined them all. I own I never found 
myself so strongly prejudiced in favour of appa- 
rent merit before ; and could willingly have pro- 
longed our conversation, but the company after 
some time withdrew. Just, however, before the 
little beau took Ms leave, he called me aside, and 
requested I would change him a twenty pound bill ; 
which, as I was incapable of doing, he was con- 
tented with borrowing half-a-crown. Adieu. 



LETTER C. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the vray of Moscow. 

Few virtues have been more praised by moral- 
ists than generosity; every practical treatise of 
ethics tends to increase our sensibility of the dis- 
tresses of others, and to relax the grasp of fru- 
gality. Philosophers that are poor, praise it be- 
cause they are gainers by its effects; and the 
opulent Seneca himself has written a treatise on 
benefits, though he was known to give nothing 
away. 

But among many who have enforced the duty 
of giving, I am surprised there are none to incul- 
cate the ignominy of receiving; to show that by 
every favour we accept, we in some measure for- 
feit our native freedom ; and that a state of con- 
tinual dependance on the generosity of others, is a 
life of gradual debasement. 

Were men taught to despise the receiving- obli- 
gations with the same force of reasoning and de- 
clamation that they are instructed to confer them, 
we might then see every person in society filling 
up the requisite duties of his station with cheerful 
industry, neither relaxed by hope, nor sullen fiom 
disappointment. 

Every favour a man receives in some measure 



370 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



sinks him below his dignity; and in proportion to 
the value of the benefit, or the frequency of its ac- 
ceptance, he gives up so much of his natural inde- 
pendence. He, therefore, who thrives upon the 
unmerited bounty of another, if he has any sensi- 
bility, suffers the worst of servitude ; the shackled 
slave may murmur without reproach, but the hum- 
ble dependant is taxed with ingratitude upon every 
symptom of discontent; the one may rave round 
the walls of his cell, but the other lingers in all the 
silence of mental confinement. To increase his 
distress, every new obligation but adds to the former 
load which kept the vigorous mind from rising; 
till, at last, elastic no longer, it shapes itself to con- 
straint, and puts on habitual servihty. 

It is thus with a feehng mind; but there are 
some who, born without any share of sensibility, 
receive favour after favour, and still cringe for 
more ; who accept the offer of generosity with as 
little reluctance as the wages of merit, and even 
make thanks for past benefits an indirect petition 
for new ; such, 1 grant, can suffer no debasement 
from dependence, since they were originally as vile 
as it was possible to be ; dependence degrades only 
the ingenuous, but leaves the sordid mind in pris- 
tine meanness. In this manner, therefore, long 
continued generosity is misplaced, or it is injurious; 
it either finds a man worthless, or it makes him so; 
and true it is, that the person who is contented to be 
often obliged, ought not to have been obliged at aU. 

Yet, while I describe the meanness of a life of 
continued dependence, I would not be thought to 
include those natural or political subordinations 
which subsist in every society; for in such, though 
dependence is exacted from the inferior, yet the 
obligation on either side is mutual. The son must 
rely upon his parent for support, but the parent 
lies under the same oMigations to give, that the 
other has to expect; the subordinate officer must 
receive the commands of his superior, but for this 
obedience the former has a right to demand an in- 
tercourse of favour. Such is not the dependence I 
would depreciate, but that where every expected 
favour must be the result of mere benevolence in 
the giver, where the benefit can be kept without 
remorse, or transferred without injustice. The 
character of a legacy hunter, for instance, is detesta- 
ble in some countries, and despicable in all ; this 
universal contempt of a man who infringes upon 
none of the laws of society, some moralists have 
arraigned as a popular and unjust prejudice; never 
considering the necessary degradations a wretch 
must undergo, who previously expects to grow rich 
by benefits, without having either natural or social 
claims to enforce his petitions. 

But this intercourse of benefaction and acknow- 
ledgment, is often injurious even to the giver as 
well as the receiver. A man can gain but little 
knowledge of himself, or of the world, amidst a cir- 



cle of those whom hope or gratitude has gathered 
round him ; their unceasing humiliations must ne- 
cessarily increase his comparative magnitude, for all 
men measure their own abilities by those of their 
company; thus being taught to over-rate his merit, 
he in reality lessens it ; increasing in confidence, 
but not in power, his professions end in empty 
boast, his undertakings in shameful disappoint- 
ment. 

It is, perhaps, one of the severest misfortunes of 
the great, that they are, in general, obliged to live 
among men whose real value is lessened by depend- 
ence, and whose minds are enslaved by obligation. 
The humble companion may have at first accepted 
patronage with generous views ; but soon he feeb 
the mortifying influence of conscious inferiority, 
by degrees sinks into a flatterer, and from flattery 
at last degenerates into stupid veneration. To 
remedy this, the great often dismiss their old de- 
pendants, and take new. Such changes are falsely 
imputed to levity, falsehood, or caprice, in the pa- 
tron, since they may be more justly ascribed to the 
client's gradual deterioration. 

No, my son, a life of independence is generally a 
life of virtue. It is that which fits the soul for every 
generous flight of humanitj^, freedom, and friend- 
ship. To give should be our pleasure, but to re- 
ceive, our shame ; serenity, health, and afliuence, 
attend the desire of rising by labour ; misery, re- 
pentance, and disrespect, that of succeeding by ex- 
torted benevolence ; the man who can thank him- 
self alone for the happiness he enjoys is truly 
blessed; and lovely, far more lovely, the sturdy 
gloom of laborious indigence, than the fawning 
simper of thriving adulation. Adieu. 



LETTER CL 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

In every society some men are born to teach, and 
others to receive instruction ; some to work, and 
others to enjoy in idleness the fruits of their indus- 
try, some to govern, and others to obey. Every 
people, how free soever, must be contented to give 
up part of their hberty and judgment to those who 
govern, in exchange for their hopes of security ; and 
the motives which first influenced their choice in 
the election of their governors should ever be weigh- 
ed against the succeeding apparent inconsistencies 
of their coiKluct. All can not be rulers, and men 
are generally best governed by a few. In making 
way through the intricacies of business, the smallest 
obstacles are apt to retard the execution of what is 
to be planned by a multiplicity of counsels ; the 
judgment of one alone being always fittest for 
winding through the labyrinths of intrigue, and the 



CITxZEN OP THE WORLD. 



371 



obstructions of disappointment. A serpent which, 
as the fable observes, is furnished with one head 
and many tails, is much more capable of subsistence 
and expedition than another which is furnished 
with but one tail and many heads. 

Obvious as those truths are, the people of this 
country seem msensible of their force. Not satis- 
fied with the advantages of internal peace and opu- 
lence, they still murmur at their governors and in- 
terfere in the execution of their designs, as if they 
wanted to be something more than happy. But as 
the Europeans instruct by argument, and the 
Asiatics mostly by narration, were I to address 
them, I should convey my sentiments in the follow- 
ing story. 

"Takupi had long been prime minister of Ti- 
partala, a fertile country that stretches along the 
western confines of China. During his adminis- 
tration, whatever advantages could be derived from 
arts, learning, and commerce, were seen to bless 
the people ; nor were the necessary precautions of 
providing for the security of the state forgotten. It 
often happens, however, that when men are pos- 
sessed of all they want, they then begin to find 
torment from imaginar}' afflictions, and lessen their 
present enjoyments by foreboding that those en- 
joyments are to have an end. The people now, 
therefore, endeavoured to find out grievances ; and 
after some search, actually began to think them- 
selves aggrieved. A petition against the enormi- 
ties of Takupi was carried to the throne in due 
form ; and the queen who governed the country, 
willing to satisfy her subjects, appointed a day in 
which his accusers should be heard, and the minis- 
ter should stand upon his defence. 

"The day being arrived, and the minister 
brought before the tribunal, a carrier, who supplied 
the city with fish, appeared among the number of 
his accusers. He exclaimed, that it was the cus- 
tom time immemorial for carriers to bring their fish 
upon a horse in a hamper ; which being placed on 
one side, and balanced by a stone on the other, was 
thus conveyed with ease and safety ; but that the 
prisoner, moved either by a spirit of innovation, or 
perhaps bribed by the hamper-makers, had obliged 
all carriers to use the stone no longer, but balance 
one hamper with another ; an order entirely repug- 
nant to the customs of all antiquity, and those of 
the kingdom of Tipartalain particular. 

" The carrier finished, and the whole court shook 
their heads at the innovating minister; when a 
second witness appeared. He was inspector of 
the city buildings, and accused the disgraced fa- 
vourite of having given orders for the demolition of 
an ancient ruin, which obstructed the passage 
through one of the principal streets. He observed, 
that such buildings were noble monuments of bar- 
barous antiquity ; contributed finely to show how 
Ettle their ancestors understood of archictecture ; 



and for that reason such monuments should be 
held sacred, and suffered gradually to decay. 

" The last witness now appeared. This was a 
widow, who had laudably attempted to burn her- 
self upon her husband's funeral pile. But the in- 
novating minister had prevented the execution of 
her design, and was insensible to her tears, protes- 
tations, and entreaties. 

" The queen could have pardoned the two former 
offences; but this last was considered as so gross 
an injury to the sex, and so directly contrary to all 
the customs of antiquity, that it called for immedi- 
ate justice. 'What !' cried the queen, 'not suffer 
a woman to burn herself when she thinks proper? 
The sex are to be very prettily tutored, no doubt, 
if they must be restrained from entertaining their 
female friends now and then with a fried wife, or 
roasted acquaintance. I sentence the criminal to 
be banished my presence for ever, for his injurious 
treatment of the sex.' 

" Takupi had been hitherto silent, and spoke 
only to show the sincerity of his resignation. 
' Great queen,' cried he, "I acknowledge my crime ; 
and since I am to be banished, I beg it may be to 
some ruined town, or desolate village, in the coun- 
try I have governed. I shall find some pleasure 
in improving the soil, and bringing back a spirit of 
industry among the inhabitants.' His request ap- 
pearing reasonable, it was immediately complied 
with ; and a courtier had orders to fix upon a place 
of banishment answering the minister's descrip- 
tion. After some months' search, however, the 
inquiry proved fruitless ; neither a desolate village 
nor a ruined town was found in the whole king- 
dom. 'Alas,' said Takupi then to thequeen, 'how 
can that country be ill governed which has neither 
a desolate village nor a ruined town in it?' The 
queen perceived the justice of his expostulation, 
and the minister was received into more than 
former favour." 



LETTER GIL 



From the Same. 



The ladies here are by no means such ardent 
gamesters as the women of Asia. In this respect 
I must do the English justice ; for I love to praise 
where applause is justly merited. Nothing is more 
common in China than to see two women of fashion 
continue gaming till one has won all the other's 
clothes, and stripped her quite naked ; the winner 
thus marching off in a double suit of finery, and 
the loser shrinking behind in the primitive simplici- 
ty of nature. 

No doubt, you remember when Shang, our 
maiden aunt, played with a sharper. First her 
money went; then her trinlcets were producedi 



512 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



her clothes followed piece by piece soon after; when 
she had thus played herself quite naked, being a 
woman of spirit, and willing to pursue her own, 
she staked her teeth: fortune was against her even 
here, and her teeth followed her clothes. At last 
she played for her left eye ; and, oh, hard fate ! this 
too she lost : however, she had the consolation of 
biting the sharper, for he never perceived that it 
was made of glass till it became his own. 

How happy, my friend, are the English ladies, 
who never rise to such an inordinance of passion ! 
Though the sex here are generally fond of games 
of chance, and are taught to manage games of skill 
from their infancy, yet they never pursue ill-fortune 
with such amazing intrepidity. Indeed, I may en- 
tirely acquit them of ever playing— I mean of play- 
ing for their eyes or their teeth. 

It is true, they often stake their fortune, their 
beauty, health, and reputation, at a gaming-table. 
It even sometimes happens, that they play their 
husbands into a gaol; yet still they preserve a de- 
corum unknown to our wives and daughters in 
China. I have been present at a rout in this 
country, where a woman of fashion, after losing 
her money, has sat writhing in all the agonies of 
bad luck ; and yet, after all, never once attempted 
to strip a single petticoat, or cover the board, as 
her last stake, with her head-clothes. 

However, though I praise their moderation at 
play, I must not conceal their assiduity. In China, 
our women, except upon some great days, are never 
permitted to finger a dice-box ; but here every day 
seems to be a festival, and night itself, which gives 
others rest, only serves to increase the female 
gamester's industry. I have been told of an old 
lady in the country, who, being given over by the 
physicians, played with the curate of her parish to 
pass the time away : having won all his money, 
she next proposed playing for her funeral charges ; 
her proposal was accepted; but unfortunately the 
lady expired just as she had taken in her game. 

There are some passions which, though different- 
ly pursued, are attended with equal consequences 
in every country : here they game with more per- 
severance, there with greater fury ; here they strip 
their" families, there they strip themselves naked. 
A lady in China who indulges a passion for gaming, 
often becomes a drunkard; and by flourishing a 
dice-box in one hand, she generally comes to brand- 
ish a dram-cup in the other. Far be it from me 
to say there are any who drink drams in England; 
but it is natural to suppose, that when a lady has 
lost every thing else but her honour, she will be 
apt to toss that into the bargain; and, grown in- 
sensible to nicer feelings, behave hke the Spaniard, 
who, when all his money was gone, endeavoured 
to bonow more, by offering to pawn his whiskers. 
Adieu. 



LETTER CIIL 

From Lien Chi A] tangi to * * * ', Merchant in Axasterdani. 

I HAVE just received a letter from my son, in 
which he informs me of the fruitlessness of his en- 
deavours to recover the lady with whom he fled 
from Persia. He strives to cover, under the ap- 
pearance of fortitude, a heart torn with anxiety 
and disappointment. I have offered little consola- 
tion, since that but two frequently feeds the sor- 
row which it pretends to deplore, and strengthens 
the impression, which nothing but the external 
rubs of time and accident can thoroughly efface. 

He informs me of his intentions of quitting 
Moscow the first opportunity, and travelling by 
land to Amsterdam. I must, therefore, upon his 
arrival, entreat the continuance of your friendship, 
and beg of you to provide him with proper direc- 
tions for finding me in London. You can scarce- 
ly be sensible of the joy I expect upon seeing 
him once more ; the ties between the father and 
the son among us of China, are much more close- 
ly drawn than with you of Europe. 

The remittances sent me from Argun to Moscow 
came in safety. I can not sufficiently admire that 
spirit of honesty which prevails through the whole 
country of Siberia: perhaps the savages of that 
desolate region are the only untutored people of 
the globe that cultivate the moral virtues, even 
without knowing that their actions merit praise. I 
have been told surprising things of their goodness, 
benevolence, and generosity ; and the uninterrupt- 
ed commerce between China and Russia serves as 
a collateral confirmation. 

"Let us," says the Chinese lawgiver, "admire 
the rude virtues of the ignorant, but rather imitate 
the delicate morals of the polite." In the country 
where I reside, though honesty and benevolence 
be not so congenial, yet art supplies the place of 
nature. Though here every vice is carried to ex- 
cess, yet every virtue is practised also with unex- 
ampled superiority. A city like this is the soil for 
great virtues and great vices ; the villain can soon 
improve himself in the deepest mysteries of de- 
ceiving ; and the practical philosopher can every 
day meet new incitements to mend his honest in- 
tentions. There are no pleasures, sensual or sen- 
timental, which this city does not produce ; yet, I 
know not how, I could not be content to reside 
here for Ufe. There is something so seducing in 
that spot in which we first had existence, that no- 
thing but it can please. Whatever vicissitudes 
we experience in life, however we toil, or whereso- 
ever we wander, our fatigued wishes still recur to 
home for tranquillity : we long to die in that spot 
which gave us birth, and in that pleasing expecta- 
tion opiate every calamity. 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



373 



You now. therefore, perceive that I have some 
intentions of leaving this country ; and yet my de- 
signed departure fills me with reluctance and re- 
gret. Though the friendships of travellers are 
generally more transient than vernal snows, still I 
feel an uneasiness at breaking the connexions I 
have formed since my arrival; particularly I shall 
have no small pain in leaving my usual companion 
guide, and instructor. 

I shall wait for the arrival of my son before I set 
out. He shall be my companion in every intended 
journey for the future ; in his company I can sup- 
port the fatigues of the way with redoubled ardour, 
pleased at once with conveying instruction and ex- 
acting obedience. Adieu. 



LETTER CIV. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the 
Ceremonial Academy at Pelcin, in China. 

Our scholars in China have a most profound 
veneration for forms. A first-rate beauty never 
studied the decorums of dress with more assiduity; 
they may properly enough be said to be clothed with 
wisdom from head to foot ; they have their philo- 
sophical caps, and philosophical whiskers; their 
philosophical slippers, and philosophical fans ; there 
is even a philosophical standard for measuring the 
nails ; and yet, with all this seeming wisdom, they 
are often found to be mere empty pretenders. 

A philosophical beau is not so frequent in En- 
rope; yet I am told that such characters are found 
here. I mean such as punctually support all the 
decorums of learning, without being really very 
profound, or naturally possessed of a fine under- 
standing who labour hard to obtain the titular 
honours attending Uterary merit, who flatter others 
in order to be flattered in turn, and only study to 
be thought students. 

A character of this kind generally receives com- 
pany in his study, in all the pensive formality of 
slippers, night-gown, and easy chair. The table is 
covered with a large book, which is always kept 
open, and never read ; his solitary hours being dedi- 
cated to dozing, mending pens, feeling his pulse, 
peeping through the microscope, and sometimes 
reading amusing books, which he condemns in 
company. His Ubrary is preserved with the most 
rehgious neatness, and is generally a repository of 
scarce books, which bear a high price, because too 
dull or useless to become common by the ordinary 
methods of publication. 

Such men are generally candidates for admit- 
tance into literary clubs, academies, and institu- 
tions, where they regularly meet to give and receive 
a little instruction, and a great deal of praise. In 
conversation they never betray ignorance, because 
they never seem to receive information. Offer a 



new observation, they have heard it before, pinch 
them in argument, and they reply wdth a sneer. 

Yet, how trifling soever these little arts may ap- 
pear, they answer one valuable purpose, of gaining 
the practisers the esteem they wish for. The 
bounds of a man's knowledge are easily concealed, 
if he has but prudence; but all can readily see and 
admire a gilt library, a set of long nails, a silver 
standish, or a well-combed whisker, who are inca- 
pable of distinguishing a dunce. 

When Father Matthew, the first European 
missionary, entered China, the court was informed, 
that he possessed great skill in astronomy; he was 
therefore sent for, and examined. The established 
astronomers of state undertook this task, and made 
their report to the emperor that his skill was but 
very superficial, and no way comparable to their 
own. The missionary, however, appealed from 
their judgment to experience, and challenged them 
to calculate an eclipse of the moon that was to hap- 
pen a few nights following. " What !" said some, 
" shall a barbarian without nails pretend to vie 
with men in astronomy, who have made it the 
study of their lives ; with men who know half of 
the knowable characters of words, who wear sci- 
entifical caps and slippers, and who have gone 
through every hterary degree with applause?" They 
accepted the challenge, confident of success. The 
eclipse began : the Chinese produced a most splen- 
did apparatus, and were fifteen minutes wrong ; 
the missionary, with a single instrument, was exact 
to a second. This was convincing; but the court 
astronomers were not to be convinced ; instead of 
acknowledging their error, they assured the em- 
peror that their calculations were certainly exact, 
but that the stranger without nails had actually 
bewitched the moon. "Well, then," cries the 
good emperor smiling at their ignorance, "you 
shall still continue to be servants of the moon ; but 
I constitute this man her controller." 

China is thus replete with men, whose only pre- 
tensions to knowledge arise from external circum- 
stances; and, in Europe, every country abounds 
with them in proportion to its ignorance. Spain 
and Flanders, who are behind the rest of Europe 
in learning at least three centuries, have twenty 
literary titles and marks of distinction unknowm in 
France or England. They have their Clarissimi 
and PrcBclarissimi, their Accuratissimi and Mi- 
nutissimi. A round cap entitles one student to 
argue, and a square cap permits another to teach, 
while a cap with a tassel almost sanctifies the head 
it happens to cover. But where true knowledge 
is cultivated, these formalities begin to disappear. 
The ermined cowl, the solemn beard, and sweep- 
ing train, are laid aside ; philosophers dress, and 
talk, and think, like other men; and lamb-skin 
dressers, and cap-makers, and tail-carriers, now 
deplore a literary age. 



374 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



For my own Jecct, my friend, I have seen enough 
of presuming ignorance never to venerate wisdom 
but where it actually appears. I have received 
literary titles and distinctions myself; and, by the 
quantity of my own wisdom, know how very httle 
wisdom they can confer. Adieu. 



LETTER CV. 



From the Same. 



The time for the young king's coronation ap- 
proaches. The great and the little world look 
forward with impatience. A knight from the 
country, who has brought up his family to see and 
be seen on this occasion, has taken all the lower 
part of the house where I lodge. His wife is lay- 
ing in a large quantity of silks, which the mercer 
tells her are to be fashionable next season ; and 
miss, her daughter, has actually had her ears bored 
previous to the ceremony. In all this bustle of 
preparation I am considered as mere lumber, and 
have been shoved up two stories higher, to make 
room for others my landlady seems perfectly con- 
vinced are my betters ; but whom, before me, she 
is contented with only calling very good company. 

The little beau, who has now forced himself into 
my intimacy, was yesterday giving me a most mi- 
nute detail of the intended procession. All men 
are eloquent upon their favourite topic : and this 
seemed peculiarly adapted to the size and turn of 
his understanding. His whole mind was blazoned 
over with a variety of glittering images ; coronets, 
escutcheons, lace, fringe, tassals, stones, bugles, 
and spun glass. " Here," cried he, " Garter is to 
walk', and there Rouge Dragon marches with the 
escutcheons on his back. Here Clarencieux moves 
forward ; and there Blue Mantle disdains to be 
left behind. Here the alderman march two and 
two ; and there the undaunted champion of Eng- 
land, no way terrified at the very numerous ap- 
pearance of gentlemen and ladies, rides forward in 
complete armour, and with an intrepid air, throws 
down his glove. Ah !" continued he, "should any 
be so hardy as to take up that fatal glove, and so 
accept the challenge, we should see fine sport ; the 
champion would show him no mercy ; he would 
soon teach him all his passes with a witness. How- 
ever, I am afraid we shall have none willing to try 
it with him upon the approaching occasion, for 
two reasons ; first, because his antagonist would 
stand a chance of being killed in the single combat; 
and, secondly, because if he escapes the champion's 
arm, he would certainly be hanged for treason. 
No, no ; I fancy none will be so hardy as to dis- 
pute it with a champion like him inured to arms ; 
and we shall probably see him prancing unmolest- 
ed away, holding his bridle thus in one hand, and 
brandisliing his dram-cup in the other." 



Some men have a manner of describing, which 
only wraps the subject in more than former obscu- 
rity; thus I was unable, with all my companion's 
volubility, to form a distinct idea of the intended 
procession. I was certain that the inauguration of 
a king should be conducted with solemnity and 
religious awe ; and I could not be persuaded, that 
there was much solemnity in this description. " If 
this be true," cried I to mj^self, " the people of 
Europe surely have a strange manner of mixing 
solemn and fantastic images together ; pictures at 
once replete with burlesque and the sublime. At 
a time when the king enters into the most solemn 
compact with his people, nothing surely should be 
admitted to diminish from the real majesty of the 
ceremony. A ludicrous image, brought in at such 
a time, throws an air of ridicule upon the whole. 
It someway resembles a picture I have seen, de- 
signed by Albert Durer, where, amidst all the so- 
lemnity of that awful scene, a deity judging, and a 
trembling world awaiting the decree, he has intro- 
duced a merry mortal trundUng a scolding wife to 
hell in a wheel-barrow." 

My companion, who mistook my silence, during 
this interval of reflection, for the rapture of as- 
tonishment, proceeded to describe those frivolous 
parts of the show that most struck his imagina- 
tion ; and to assure me, that if I stayed in this 
country some months longer, I should see fine 
things. " For my own part," continued he, " I 
know already of fifteen suits of clothes, that would 
stand on one end with gold lace, all designed to be 
first shown there ; and as for diamonds, rubies, 
emeralds, and pearls, we shall see them as thick as 
brass nails in a sedan chair. And then we are 
all to walk so majestically thus ; this foot always 
behind the foot before. The ladies are to fling 
nosegays ; the court poets to scatter verses : the 
spectators are to be all in full dress : Mrs. Tibbs 
in a new sack, ruffles, and frenched hair : look 
where you will, one thing finer than another ; 
Mrs. Tibbs courtesies to the duchess ; her grace 
returns the compliment with a bow. ' Largess,' 
cries the herald. ' Make room,' cries the gentle- 
man usher. ' Knock him down,' cries the guard, 
Ah !" continued he, amazed at his own description, 
what an astonishing scene of grandeur can art 
produce from the smallest circumstance, when it 
thus actually turns to wonder one man putting on 
another man's hat !" 

1 now found his mind was entirely set upon the 
fopperies of the pageant, and quite regardless of the 
real meaning of such costly preparations. '" Pa- 
geants," says Bacon, " are pretty things ; but wo 
should rather study to make them elegant than ex- 
pensive." Processions, cavalcades, and all that 
fund of gay frippery, furnished out by tailors, bar- 
bers, and tirewomen, mechanically influence the 
mind into veneration. An emperor in his night- 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



375 



cap would not. meet with half the respect of an em- 
peror with a glittering crown. Politics resemble 
reUgion ; attempting to divest either of ceremony is 
the most certain method of bringing either into 
contempt. The weak must have their inducements 
to admiration as well as the wise ; and it is the bu- 
siness of a sensible government to impress all ranks 
with a sense of subordination, whether this be ef- 
fected b}' a diamond buckle, or a virtuous edict, a 
sumptuary law, or a glass necklace. 

This interval of reflection only gave my com- 
panion spirits to begin his description afresh; and, 
as a greater inducement to raise my curiosity, he 
informed me of the vast sums that were given by 
the spectators for places. " That the ceremony 
must be fine," cries he, "is very evident from the 
fine price that is paid for seeing it. Several ladies 
have assured me, they would wiUingly part with 
one eye rather than be prevented from looking on 
with the other. Come, come," continues he, " I 
have a friend, who, for my sake, will supply us 
with places at the most reasonable rates ; I'll take 
care you shall not be imposed upon ; and he will 
inform you of the use, finery, rapture, splendour, 
and enchantment of the whole ceremony, better 
than I." 

Follies often repeated lose their absurdity, and 
assume the appearance of reason. His arguments 
were so often and so strongly enforced, that I had 
actually some thoughts of becoming a spectator. 
We accordingly went together to bespeak a place ; 
but guess my surprise, when the man demanded 
a purse of gold for a single seat ! I could hardly 
believe him serious upon making the demand. — 
" Prithee, friend," cried I, " after I have paid twen- 
ty pounds for sitting here an hour or two, can I 
bring a part of the coronation back? — " No, sir." — 
" How long can I live upon it, after I have come 
away7" — "Not long, sir." — "Can a coronation 
clothe, feed, or fatten me 7" — "Sir," replied the 
man, " you seem to be under a mistake ; all that 
you can bring away is the pleasure of having it to 
say, that you saw the coronation." — " Blast me !" 
cries Tibbs, " if that be all, there is no need of pay- 
ing for that, since I am resolved to have that plea- 
sure, whether I am there or no !" 

I am conscious, my friend, that this is but a very 
confused description of the intended ceremony. 
You may object, that I neither settle rank, pre- 
cedency, nor place ; that I seem ignorant whether 
Gules walks before or behind Garter ; that 1 have 
neither mentioned the dimensions of a lord's cap, 
nor measured the length of a lady's tail. I know 
your delight is in minute description ; and this I 
am unhappily disqualified from furnishing; yet, 
upon the whole, I fancy it will be no way compa- 
rable to the magnificence of our late emperor 
Whangti's procession, when he was married to 



the moon, at which Fum Hoam i^mself presided 
in person. Adieu. 



LETTER CVI. 



From the Same. 



It was formerly the custom here, when men of 
distinction died, for their surviving acquaintance to 
throw each a slight present into the grave. Several 
things of little value were made use of for that pur- 
pose; perfumes, relics, spices, bitter herbs, camo- 
mile, wormwood, and verses. This custom, how- 
ever, is almost discontinued, and nothing but verses 
alone are now lavished on such occasions ; an ob- 
lation which they suppose may be interred with 
the dead, without any injury to the living. 

Upon the death of the great, therefore, the poets 
and undertakers are sure of employment. While 
one provides the long cloak, black staff, and mourn- 
ing coach, the other produces the pastoral or elegy, 
the monody or apotheosis. The nobility need be 
under no apprehensions, but die as fast as they 
think proper, the poet and undertaker are ready to 
supply them ; these can find metaphorical tears and 
family escutcheons at half an hour's warning ; and 
when the one has soberly laid the body in the grave, 
the other is ready to fix it figuratively among the 
stars. 

There are several ways of being poetically sor- 
rowful on such occasions. The bard is now some 
pensive youth of science, who sits deploring among 
the tombs ; again, he is Thyrsis complaining in a 
circle of harmless sheep. Now Britannia sits upon 
her own shore, and gives a loose to maternal ten- 
derness ; at another time, Parnassus, even the 
mountain Parnassus, gives way to sorrow, and is 
bathed in tears of distress. 

But the most usual manner is thus : Damon 
meets Menalcas, who has got a most gloomy coun- 
tenance. The shepherd asks his friend, whence 
that look of distress? to which the other replies, 
that Polho is no more. " If that be the case then," 
cries Damon, " let us retire to yonder bower at some 
distance off, where the cypress and the jessamine 
add fragrance to the breeze ; and let us weep alter- 
nately for PoUio, the friend of shepherds, and the 
patron of every muse." — " Ah," returns his fellow 
shepherd, " what think you rather of that grotto 
by the fountain side ! the murmuring stream wiU 
help to assist our complaints, and a nightingale on 
a neighbouring tree will join her voice to the con- 
cert !" When the place is thus settled, they begin : 
the brook stands still to hear their lamentations ; 
the cows forget to graze ; and the very tigers start 
from the forest with sympathetic concern. By the 
tombs of our ancestors ! my dear Fum, I am quite 



31-6 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



unaffected in all this distress : the whole is liquid 
laudanum to my spirits ; and a tiger of common 
sensibility has twenty times more tenderness than I. 

But though I could never weep with the com- 
plaining shepherd, yet I am sometimes induced to 
pity the poet, whose trade is thus to make demi- 
gods and heroes for a dinner. There is not in na- 
ture a more dismal figure than a man who sits 
down to premeditated flattery: every stanza he 
writes tacitly reproaches the meanness of his oc- 
cupation, till at last his stupidity becomes more 
stupid, and his dulness more diminutive. 

I am amazed, therefore, that none have yet found 
out the secret of flattering the worthless, and yet 
of preserving a safe conscience. I have often 
wished for some method, by which a man might do 
himself and his deceased patron justice, without 
being under the hateful reproach of self-conviction. 
After long lucubration, I have hit upon such an 
expedient : and send you the specimen of a poem 
upon the decease of a great man, in which the flat- 
tery is perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly in- 
nocent, 

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE **". 

Ye muses, pour the pitying tear 

For PoUio snatch' d away: 
O, had he lived another year, — 

He had not died to-day. 

O, were he born to bless mankind 

In virtuous times of yore. 
Heroes themselves had fallen behind, — 

JVhene^er he went before. 

How sad the groves and plains appear, 

And sympathetic sheep : 
Even pitying hills would drop a tear, — 

If hills could learn to weep. 

His bounty in exalted strain 

Each bard may well display 
Since none implored relief in vain, — 

That went relieved away. 

And hark ! I hear the tuneful throng 

His obsequies forbid : 
He still shall live, shall live as long — 

As ever dead man did. 



LETTER CVII. 

From the Same. 

It is the most usual method in every report, first 
to examine its probability, and then act as the con- 
juncture may require. The English, however, 
exert a different spirit in such circumstances ; they 
first aetj and, when too late, begin to examine. 



From a knowledge of this disposition, there are se- 
veral here, who make it their business to frame new 
reports at every convenient interval, all tending to 
denounce ruin both on their contemporaries and 
their posterity. T his denunciation is eagerly caught 
up by the public : away they fling to propagate the 
distress ; sell out at one place, buy in at another, 
grumble at their governors, shout in mobs, and 
when they have thus for some time behaved hke 
fools, sit down coolly to argue and talk wisdom, to 
puzzle each other with syllogism, and prepare for 
the next report that prevails, which is always at- 
tended with the same success. 

Thus are they ever rising above one report, only 
to sink into another. They resemble a dog in a 
well, pawing to get free. When he has raised his 
upper parts above water, and every spectator ima- 
gines him disengaged, his lower parts drag him 
down again, and sink him to the nose ; he makes 
new efforts to emerge, and every effort increasing 
his weakness, only tends to sink him the deeper. 

There are some here who, 1 am told, make a 
tolerable subsistence by the credulity of their coun- 
trymen. As they find the people fond of blood, 
wounds, and death, they contrive political ruins 
suited to every month in the year. This month 
the people are to be eaten up by the French in flat- 
bottomed boats ; the next, by the soldiers designed 
to beat the French back. Now the people are go- 
ing to jump down the gulf of luxury; and now no- 
thing but a herring subscription can fish them up 
again. Time passes on ; the report proves false ; 
new circumstances produce new changes ; but the 
people never change, they are persevering in folly. 

In other countries, those boding politicians would 
be left to fret over their own schemes alone, and 
grow splenetic without hopes of infecting others : 
but England seems to be the very region where 
spleen delights to dwell; a man not only can give 
an unbounded scope to the disorder in himself, but 
may, if he pleases, propagate it over the whole king- 
dom, with a certainty of success. He has only to 
cry out that the government, the government is all 
wrong ; that their schemes are leading to ruin ; that 
Britons are no more ; — every good member of the 
commonwealth thinks it his duty, in such a case, 
to deplore the universal decadence with sympa- 
thetic sorrow, and, by fancying the constitution in 
a decay, absolutely to impair its vigour. 

This people would laugh at my simplicity, 
should I advise them to be less sanguine in har- 
bouring gloomy predictions, and examine coolly 
before they attempted to complain. I have just 
heard a story, which, though transacted in a pri- 
vate family, serves very well to describe the beha- 
viour of the whole nation, in cases of threatened 
calamity. As there are public, so there are private 
incendiaries here. One of the last, either for the 
amusement of his friends, or to divert a fit of the 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



377 



spleen, lately sent a threatening letter to a worthy 
family in my neighbourhood, to this effect: — 

"Sir, — Knowing you to be very rich, and find- 
ing myself to be very poor, I think proper to inform 
you, that I have learned the secret of poisoning 
man, woman, and child, without danger of detec- 
tion. Don't be uneasy, sir, you may take your 
choice of being poisoned in a fortnight, or poisoned 
in a month, or poisoned in six weeks : you shall 
have full time to settle all your affairs. Though I 
am poor, I love to do things like a gentleman. 
But, sir, you must die ; I have determined it within 
my own breast that you must die. Blood, sir, 
blood is my trade ; so I could wish you would this 
day six weeks take leave of your friends, wife, and 
family, for I can not possibly allow you longer time. 
To convince you more certainly of the power of 
my art, by which you may know I speak truth, 
take this letter; when you have read it, tear off the 
seal, fold it up, and give it to your favourite Dutch 
mastiff that sits by the fire ; he will swallow it, sir, 
like a buttered toast : in three hours four minutes 
after he has eaten it, he will attempt to bite off his 
own tongue, and half an hour after burst asunder 
in twenty pieces. Blood, blood, blood! So no 
more at present from, sir, your most obedient, 
most devoted humble servant to command, tUl 
death." 

You may easily imagine the consternation into 
which this letter threw the whole good-natured 
family. The poor man to whom it was addressed 
was the more surprised, as not knowing how he 
could merit such inveterate malice. All the friends 
of the family were convened ; it was universally 
agreed that it was a most terrible affair, and that 
the government should be solicited to offer a re- 
ward and a pardon : a fellow of this kind would go 
on poisoning family after family ; and it was im- 
possible to say where the destruction would end. 
In pursuance of these determinations, the govern- 
ment was applied to ; strict search was made after 
the incendiary, but all in vain. At last, therefore, 
they recollected that the experiment was not yet 
tried upon the dog ; the Dutch mastiff was brought 
up, and placed in the midst of the friends and re- 
lations, the seal was torn off, the packet folded up 
with care, and soon they found, to the great sur- 
prise of all — that the dog would not eat the letter. 
Adieu. 



LETTER CVIII. 

From the Same. 

I HAVE frequently been amazed at the ignorance 
if almost all the European travellers who have 
penetrated any considerable way eastward into 
Asia. They have been influenced either by mo- 



tives of commerce or piety ; and their accounts are 
such as might reasonably be expected from men of 
very narrow or very prejudiced education, the dic- 
tates of superstition or the result of ignorance. Is 
it not surprising, that in such a variety of adven- 
turers, not one single philosopher should be found? 
for as to the travels of Gemelli, the learned are 
long agreed that the whole is but an imposture. 

There is scarcely any country, how rude or un- 
cultivated soever, where the inhabitants are not 
possessed of some peculiar secrets either in nature 
or art, which might be transplanted with success. 
In Siberian Tartary, for instance, the natives ex- 
tract a strong spirit from milk, which is a secret 
probably unknown to the chemists of Europe. In 
the most savage parts of India, they are possessed 
of the secret of dyeing vegetable substances scarlet; 
and of refining lead into a metal, which, for hard- 
ness and colour, is little inferior to silver : not one 
of which secrets but would, in Europe, make a 
man's fortune. The power of the Asiatics in pro- 
ducing winds, or bringing down rain, the Europe- 
ans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have 
no instances of the like nature among themselves; 
but they would have treated the secrets of gun- 
powder, and the mariner's compass, in the same 
manner, had they been told the Chinese used such 
arts before the invention was common with them- 
selves at home. 

Of all the English philosophers, I most reverence 
Bacon, that great and hardy genius ! he it is who 
allows of secrets yet unknown ; who, undaunted by 
the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts human 
curiosity to examine every part of nature, and even 
exhorts man to try, whether he can not subject the 
tempest, the thunder, and even earthquakes, to 
human control ! O, did a man of his daring spirit, 
of his genius, penetration, and learning, travel to 
those countries which have been visited only by 
the superstitious and the mercenary, what might 
not mankind expect ! How would he enlighten 
the regions to which he travelled! and what a 
variety of knowledge and useful improvement 
would he not bring back in exchange ! 

There is, probably, no coimtry so barbarous, 
that would not disclose all it knew, if it received 
from the traveller equivalent information; and I 
am apt to think, that a person who was ready to 
give more knowledge than he received, would be 
welcome wherever he came. All his care in travel- 
Ung should only be to suit his intellectual banquet 
to the people with whom he conversed ; he should 
not attempt to teach the unlettered Tartar astrono- 
my, nor yet instruct the poUte Chinese in the ruder 
arts of subsistence. He should endeavour to im- 
prove the barbarian in the secrets of living com- 
fortably; and the inhabitant of a more refined 
country in the speculative pleasures of science. 
How much more nobly would a philosopher thus 



•378 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



employed spend his time, than by sitting at home, 
earnestly intent upon adding one star more to his 
catalogue, or one monster more to his collection; 
or still, if possible, more triflingly sedulous in the 
incatenation of fleas, or the sculpture of a cherry- 
stone ! 

I never consider this subject without being sur- 
prised, that none of those societies, so laudably es- 
tablished in England for the promotion of arts and 
learning, have ever thought of sending one of their 
members into the most eastern parts of Asia, to 
make what discoveries he was able. To be con- 
vinced of the utility of such an undertaking, let 
them but read the relations of their own travellers. 
It will be there found, that they are as often de- 
ceived themselves, as they attempt to deceive 
others. The merchant tells us, perhaps, the price 
of different commodities, the methods of baling 
them up, and the properest manner for a European 
to preserve his health in the country. The mis 
sionary, on the other hand, informs us, with what 
pleasure the country to which he was sent em- 
braced Christianity, and the numbers he convert- 
ed ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region 
where there was no fish, or the shifts he made to 
celebrate the rites of his religion, in places where 
there was neither bread nor wine ! Such accounts, 
with the usual appendage of marriages and funerals, 
inscriptions, rivers, and mountains, make up the 
whole of a European traveller's diary : but as to 
all the secrets of which the inhabitants are pos- 
sessed, those are universally attributed to magic ; 
and when the traveller can give no other account 
of the wonders he sees performed, very contentedly 
ascribes them to the power of the devil. 

It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English 
chemist, that if every artist would but discover 
what new observations occurred to him in the ex- 
ercise of his trade, philosophy would thence gain 
innumerable improvements. It may be observed, 
with still greater justice, that if the usefid know- 
ledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, was 
gleaned by a judicious observer, the advantages 
would be inestimable. Are there not even in 
Europe many useful inventions known or practised 
but in one place? The instrument, as an example, 
for cutting down corn in Germany, is much more 
handy and expeditious, in my opinion, than the 
sickle used in England. The cheap and expedi- 
tious manner of making vinegar, without previous 
fermentation, is known only in a part of France. 
If such discoveries, therefore, remain still to be 
known at home, what funds of knowledge might 
not be collected in countries yet unexplored, or 
only passed through by ignorant travellers in hasty 
caravans'? 

The caution with which foi-eigners are received 
in Asia may be alleged as an objection to such a 
design. But how readily have several European 



merchants found admission into regions the most 
suspecting, under the character of Sanjapins, or 
northern pilgrims. To such, not even China it- 
self denies access. 

To send out a traveller, properly qualified for 
these purposes, might be an object of national con- 
cern ; it would in some measure repair the breaches 
made by ambition; and might show that there 
were still some who boasted a greater name than 
that of patriots, who professed themselves lovers 
of men. The only difficulty would remain, in 
choosing a proper person for so arduous an enter- 
prise. He should be a man of a philosophical 
turn ; one apt to deduce consequences of general 
utiUty from particular occurrences : neither swol- 
len with pride, nor hardened by prejudice; neither 
wedded to one particular system, nor instructed 
only in one particular science ; neither wholly a 
botanist, nor quite an antiquarian ; his mind should 
be tinctured with nuscellaneous knowledge, and 
his manners humanized by an intercourse with 
men. He should be in some measure an enthu- 
siast in the design ; fond of travelling, from a ra- 
pid imagination and an innate love of change ; 
furnished with a body capable of sustaining every 
fatigue, and a heart not easily terrified at danger. 
Adieu. . 



LETTER CIX. 



From the Same. 



One of the principal tasks I had proposed to 
myself, on my arrival here, was to become acquaint- 
ed with the names and characters of those now 
living, who, as scholars or wits, had acquired the 
greatest share of reputation. In order to succeed 
in this design, I fancied the surest method would 
be to begin my inquiry among the ignorant, judg- 
ing that his fame would be greatest, which was 
loud enough to be heard by the vulgar. Thus pre- 
disposed, 1 began the search, but only went in 
quest of disappointment and perplexity. I found 
every district had a peculiar famous man of its 
own. Here the story-telling shoemalier had en- 
grossed the admiration on one side of the street, 
while the bellman, who excelleth at a catch, was 
in quiet possession of the other. At one end of 
a lane the sexton was regarded as the greatest man 
alive ; but 1 had not travelled half its length, till I 
found an enthusiastic teacher had divided his repu- 
tation. My landlady, perceiving my design, was 
kind enough to offer me her advice in this affair. 
It was true, she observed, that she was no judge, 
but she knew what pleased herself, and, if I would 
rest upon her judgment, I should set down Tom 
Collins as the most ingenious man in the world ; 
for Tom was able to take off all mankind, and 
imitate besides a sow and pigs to perfection. 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



379 



I now perceived, that taking my standard of re- 
putation among the vulgar, would swell my cata- 
logue of great names above the size of a court 
calendar ; I therefore discontinued this method of 
pursuit, and resolved to prosecute my inquiry in 
that usual residence of fame, a bookseller's shop. 
In consequence of this, I entreated the bookseller 
to let me know who were they who now made the 
greatest figure, either in morals, wit, or learning. 
Without giving me a direct answer, he pulled a 
pamphlet from the shelf, The Young Attorney's 
Guide : " There, sir," cries he, "there is a touch 
for you ; fifteen hundred of these moved off in a 
day : I take the author of this pamphlet, either for 
title, preface, plan, body, or index, to be the com- 
pletest hand in England." I found it was vain to 
prosecute my inquiry, where my informer appear- 
ed so incompetent a judge of merit; so paying for 
the Young Attorney's Guide, which good man- 
ners obliged me to buy, I walked off. 

My pursuit after famous men now brought me 
into a print-shop. " Here," thought I, " the paint- 
er only reflects the public voice. As every man 
who deserved it had formerly his statue placed up 
in the Roman forum, so here, probabl}^, the pictures 
of none but such as merit a place in our affections 
are held up for public sale." But guess my sur- 
prise, when I came to examine this repository of 
noted faces ; all distinctions were levelled here, as 
in the grave, and I could not but regard it as the 
catacomb of real merit ! The brick-dust man took 
up as much room as the truncheoned hero, and the 
judge was elbowed by the thief-taker; quacks, 
pimps, and buffoons increased the group, and noted 
stallions only made room for more noted whores. 
I had read the works of some of the moderns, pre- 
vious to my coming to England, with delight and 
approbation, but 1 found their faces had no place 
here ; the walls were covered with the names of 
authors I had never known, or had endeavoured to 
forget; with the little self-advertising things of a 
day, who had forced themselves into fashion, but 
not into fame. I could read at the bottom of some 
pictures the names of **, and ***, and ****, all 
equally candidates for the vulgar shout, and fore- 
most to propagate their unblushing faces upon 
brass. My uneasiness, therefore, at not finding my 
few favourite names among the number, was now 
changed into congratulation. I could not avoid re- 
flecting on the fine observation of Tacitus on a 
similar occasion. " In this cavalcade of flattery," 
cries the historian, " neither the pictures of Brutus, 
Cassius, nor Cato, were to be seen ; eo clariores 
qui imagines corum non deferebantur, their ab- 
sence being the strongest proof of their merit." 

" It is in vain," cried I, "to seek for true great- 
ness among these monuments of the unburied 
dead ; let me go among the tombs of those who are 



confessedly famous, and see if any have been lately 
deposited there, who deserve the attention of pos- 
terity, and whose names may be transmitted to my 
distant friend, as an honour to the present age." 
Determined in my pursuit, I paid a second visit to 
Westminster Abbey. There I found several new 
monuments erected to the memory of several great 
men ; the names of the great men I absolutely for- 
get, but I well remember that Roubillac was the 
statuary who carved them. I could not help smil- 
ing at two modern epitaphs in particular, one of 
which praised the deceased for being ortus ex an- 
tiqud stirps ; the other commended the dead be- 
cause hanc ccdem suis sumptibus recedijicavit. 
The greatest merit of one consisted in his being 
descended from an illustrious house ; the chief 
distinction of the other, that he had propped up an 
old house that was falling. "Alas! alas!" cried 
I, "such monuments as these confer honour, not 
upon the great men, but upon little Roubillac." 

Hitherto disappointed in my inquiry after the 
great of the present age, I was resolved to mix in 
company, and try what I could learn among critics 
in coffee-houses ; and here it was that I heard my 
favourite names talked of even with inverted fame. 
A gentleman of exalted merit as a writer was 
branded in general terms as a bad man ; another, 
of exquisite delicacy as a poet, was reproached for 
wanting good-nature ; a third was accused of free- 
thinking; and a fourth of having once been a 
player. "Strange," cried I, "how unjust are 
mankind in the distribution of fame ! the ignorant, 
among whom I sought at first, were willing to 
grant, but incapable of distinguishing the virtues 
of those who deserved it ; among those I now con- 
verse with, they know the proper objects of admi- 
ration, but mix envy with applause." 

Disappointed so often, I was now resolved to ex- 
amine those characters in person, of whom the 
world talked so freely. By conversing with men 
of real merit, 1 began to find out thqse characters 
which really deserved, though they strove to avoid, 
applause. I found the vulgar admiration entirely 
misplaced, and malevolence without its sting. The 
truly great, possessed of numerous small faults and 
shining virtues, preserve a sublime in morals as in 
vvritincf. They wlro have attained an excellence 
in either, commit numberless transgressions, ob- 
servable to the meanest understanding. The ig- 
norant critic and dull remarker can readily spy 
blemishes in eloquence or morals, whose senti- 
ments are not sufiiciently elevated to observe a 
beauty. But such are judges neither of books 
nor of life ; they can diminish no solid reputation 
by their censure, nor bestow a lasting character by 
their applause. In short, I found, by my search, 
that such only can confer real fame upon others 
who have merit themselves to deserve it. Adieu. 



380 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



LETTER ex. 



From the Same. 



There -are numberless employments in the 
courts of the eastern monarchs utterly unpractised 
and unknown in Europe. They have no such 
officers, for instance, as the emperor's ear tickler, 
or tooth-picker ; they have never introduced at the 
courts the mandarine appointed to bear the royal 
tobacco-box, or the grave director of the imperial 
exercitations in the seraglio. Yet I am surprised 
that the English have imitated us in none of these 
particulars, as they are generally pleased with 
every thing that comes from China, and excessively 
fond of creating new and useless employments. 
They have filled their houses with our furniture, 
their public gardens with our fireworks, and their 
very ponds with our fish. Our courtiers, my friend, 
are the fish and the furniture they should have im- 
ported ; our courtiers would fill up the necessary 
ceremonies of a court better than those of Europe ; 
would be contented with receiving large salaries 
for doing little ; whereas some of this country are 
at present discontented, though they receive large 
salaries for doing nothing. 

I lately, therefore, had thoughts of publishing a 
proposal here, for the admission of some new east- 
ern offices and titles into their Court Register. 
As I consider myself in the light of a cosmopo- 
Ute, I find as much satisfaction in scheming for the 
countries in which I happen to reside as for that 
in which 1 was born. 

The finest apartments in the palace of Pegu are 
frequently infested with rats. These the religion 
of the country strictly forbids the people to kill. 
In such circumstances, therefore, they are obliged 
to have recourse to some great man of the court, 
who is willing to free the royal apartments, even 
at the hazard of his salvation. After a weak 
monarch's reign, the quantity of court vermin in 
every corner of the palace is surprising ; but a 
prudent king, and a vigilant officer, soon drive 
them from their sanctuaries behind the mats and 
tapestry, and efiectually free the court. Such an 
officer in England would, in my opinion, be ser- 
viceable at this juncture ; for if, as I am told, the 
palace be old, much vermin must undoubtedly have 
taken refuge behind the wainscot and hangings. 
A minister should therefore be invested with the 
title and dignities of court vermin-killer ; he should 
have full power either to banish, take, poison, or 
destroy them, with enchantments, traps, ferrets, or 
ratsbane. He might be permitted to brandish his 
besom without remorse, and brush down every 
part of the furniture, without sparing a single cob- 
web, however sacred by long prescription. I com- 
municated this proposal some days ago in a com- 
pany of the first distinction, and enjoying the most 



honourable offices of the state. Among the num- 
ber were the inspector of Great Britain, Mr. Hen- 
riques the director of the ministry, Ben. Victor 
the treasurer, John Lockman the secretary, and 
the conductor of the Imperial Magazine. They 
all acquiesced in the utility of my proposal, but 
were apprehensive it might meet with some ob- 
struction from court upholsterers and chamber- 
maids, who would object to it from the demolition 
of the furniture, and the dangerous use of ferrets 
and ratsbane. 

My next proposal is rather more general than 
the former, and might probably meet with less op- 
position. Though no people in the world flatter 
each other more than the English, I know none 
who understand the art less, and flatter with such 
little refinement. Their panegyric, like a Tartar 
feast, is indeed served up with profusion, but their 
cookery is insupportable. A client here shall dress 
up a fricassee for his patron, that shall offend an 
ordinary nose before it enters the room. A town 
shall send up an address to a great minister, which 
shall prove at once a satire on the minister and 
themselves. If the favourite of the day sits, or 
stands, or sleeps, there are poets to put it into verse, 
and priests to preach it in the pulpit. In order, 
therefore, to free both those who praise, and those 
who are praised, from a duty probably disagreeable 
to both, I would constitute professed flatterers here, 
as in several courts of India. These are appoint- 
ed in the courts of their princes, to instruct the 
people where to exclaim with admiration, and 
where to lay an emphasis of praise. But an offi- 
cer of this kind is always in waiting when the em- 
peror converses in a familiar manner among his 
rajahs and other nobility. At every sentence, when 
the monarch pauses, and smiles at what he has 
been saying, the Karamatman, as this officer is 
called, is to take it for granted that his majesty has 
said a good thing. Upon which he cries out — 
"Karamat! Karamat! — a miracle! a miracle!" 
and throws up his hands and his eyes in ecstasy. 
This is echoed by the courtiers around, while the 
emperor sits all this time in sullen satisfaction, en- 
joying the triumph of his joke, or studying a new 
repartee. 

I would have such an officer placed at every 
great man's table in England. By frequent prac- 
tice he might soon become a perfect master of the 
art, and in time would turn out pleasing to his 
patron, no way troublesome to himself, and might 
prevent the nauseous attempts of many more ig- 
norant pretenders. The clergy here, I am con- 
vinced, would relish this proposal. It would pro- 
vide places for several of them. And indeed, by 
some of their late productions, many appear to 
have qualified themselves as candidates for this 
office already. 

But my last proposal I take to be of the utmost 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



381 



importance. Our neighbour the empress of Russia, 
has, you may remember, instituted an order of fe- 
male knighthood: the empress of Germany has 
also instituted another : the Chinese have had such 
an order time immemorial. I am amazed the En- 
glish have never come into such an institution. 
When I consider what kind of men are made 
knights here, it appears strange that they have 
never conferred this honour upon wromen. They 
make cheesemongers and pastry cooks knights ; 
then, why not their wives'? They have called up 
tallow-chandlers to maintain the hardy profession 
of chivalry and arms : then, why not their vfives 1 
Haberdashers are sworn, as I suppose all knights 
must be sworn, never tojly in time of mellay or 
battle, to maintain and uphold the noble estate of 
chivalry with horse, harnishe and other knightlye 
habiliments. Haberdashers, I say, are sworn to all 
this; then, why not their wives? Certain I am, 
their wives understand fighting and feats of mellay 
and battle better than they ; and as for knightlye 
horse and harnishe, it is probable both know no- 
thing more than the harness of a one-horse chaise. 
No, no, my friend, instead of conferring any order 
upon the husbanc's, I would knight their wives. 
However, the state should not be troubled with a 
new institution upon this occasion. Some ancient 
exploded order might be revived, which would fur- 
nish both a motto and a name, — the ladies might 
be permitted to choose for themselves. There are, 
for instpnce, the obsolete orders of the Dragon in 
Germany, of the Rue in Scotland, and the Porcu- 
pine in France; all well-sounding names, and very 
applicable to my intended female institution. Adieu. 



LETTER CXI. 



From the Same. 



Religious sects in England are far more nu- 
merous than in China. Every man, who has in- 
terest enough to hire a conventicle here, may set 
up for himself, and sell off a new religion. The 
sellers of the newest pattern give extreme good 
bargains ; and let their disciples have a great deal 
of confidence for very little money. 

Their shops are much frequented, and their cus- 
tomers every day increasing ; for people are natu- 
rally fond of going to Paradise at as small expense 
as possible. 

Yet, you must not conceive this modern sect as 
differing in opinion from those of the established 
religion; difference of opinion indeed formerly di- 
vided their sectaries, and sometimes drew their ar- 
mies to the field. White gowns and black man- 
tles, flapped hats and cross pocket-holes, were once 
the obvious causes of quarrel; men then had some 
reason for fighting ; they knew what they fought 
about; but at present, they are arrived at such re- 



finement in religion-making, that they have actually 
formed a new sect without a new opinion ; they 
quarrel for opinions they both equally defend; they 
hate each other, and that is all the difference be- 
tween them. 

But though their principles are the same, their 
practice is somewhat different. Those of the es- 
tablished religion laugh when they are pleased, and 
their groans are seldom extorted but by pain or 
danger. The new sect on the contrary weep for 
their amusement, and use Uttle music, except a 
chorus of sighs and groans, or tunes that are made 
to imitate groaning. Laughter is their aversion; 
lovers court each other from the Lamentations; the 
bridegroom approaches the nuptial couch in sorrow- 
ful solemnity, and the bride looks more dismal thaft 
an undertaker's shop. Dancing round the room 
is with them running in a direct line to the devil ; 
and as for gaming, though but in jest, they would 
sooner play with a rattlesnake's tail than finger a 
dice-box. 

By this time you perceive, that I am describing a 
sect of enthusiasts, and you have already compared 
them with the Faquirs, Brahmins, and Talapoins 
of the East. Among these, you know, are genera- 
tions that have never been known to smile, and 
voluntary affliction makes up all the merit they 
can boast of. Enthusiasms in every country pro- 
duce the same effects; stick the Faquir with pins, 
or confine the Brahmin to a vermin hospital, 
spread the Talapoin on the ground, or load the 
sectary's brow with contrition : those worshippers 
who discard the Ught of reason are ever gloomy ; 
their fears increase in proportion to their igno- 
rance, as men are continually under apprehensions 
who walk in darkness. 

Yet there is still a stronger reason for the enthu- 
siast's being an enemy to laughter ; namely, his be- 
ing himself so proper an object of ridicule. It is re- 
markable, that the propagators of false doctrines 
have ever been averse to mirth, and always begin 
by recommending gravity, when they intended to 
disseminate imposture. Fohi, the idol of China, is 
represented as having never laughed ; Zoroaster, 
the leader of the Brahmins, is said to have laughed 
but twice — upon his coming into this world, and 
upon his leaving it ; and Mahomet himself, though 
a lover of pleasure, was a professed opposer of gaie- 
ty. Upon a certain occasion, telling his followers 
that they would all appear naked at the resurrec- 
tion, his favourite wife represented such an assem- 
bly as immodest and unbecoming. "Foolish wo- 
man!" cried the grave prophet, " though the whole 
assembly be naked, on that day they shall have for- 
gotten to laugh." Men like him opposed ridicule, 
because they knew it to be a most formidable an- 
tagonist, and preached up gravity, to conceal their 
own want of importance. 

Ridicule has ever been the most powerful enemy 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



of enthusiasm, and properly the only antagonist 
that can be opposed to it with success. Persecu- 
tion only serves to propagate new religions; they 
acquire fresh vigour beneath the executioner and 
the axe ; and like some vivacious insects, multiply 
by dissection. It is also impossible to combat en- 
thusiasm by reason, for though it makes a show 
of resistance, it soon eludes the pressure,, refers you 
to distinctions not to be understood, and feelings 
which it can not explain. A man who would en- 
deavour to fix an enthusiast by argument, might 
as well attempt to spread quicksilver with his 
fingers. The only way to conquer a visionary is 
to despise him ; the stake, the fagot, and the dis- 
puting doctor, in some measure ennoble the opinions 
they are brought to oppose : they are harmless 
against innovating pride ; contempt alone is truly 
dreadful. Hunters generally know the most vul- 
nerable part of the beasts they pursue, by the care 
which every animal takes to defend the side which 
is weakest : on what side the enthusiast is most 
vulnerable may be known by the care which he 
takes in the beginning to work his disciples into 
gravity, and guard them against the power of ridi- 
cule. 

When Philip the Second was king of Spain, 
there was a contest in Salamanca between two or- 
ders of friars for superiority. The legend of one 
side contained more extraordinary miracles, but the 
legend of the other was reckoned most authentic. 
They reviled each other, as is usual in disputes of 
divinity, the people were divided into factions, and 
a civil war appeared unavoidable. In order to pre- 
vent such an imminent calamity, the combatants 
were prevailed upon to submit their legends to the 
fiery trial, and that which came forth untouched by 
the fire was to have the victory, and to be honour- 
ed with a double share of reverence. Whenever 
the people flock to see a miracle, it is a hundred to 
one but that they see a miracle ; incredible, there- 
fore, were the numbers that were gathered round 
upon this occasion. The friars on each side ap- 
proached, and confidently threw their respective 
legends into the flames, when lo ! to the utter dis- 
appointment of all the assembly, instead of a 
miracle, both legends were consumed. Nothing 
but thus turning both parties into contempt could 
have prevented the effusion of blood. The people 
now laughed at their former folly, and wondered 
why they fell out. Adieu 



LETTER CXII. 

From the Same. 

The English are at present employed in cele- 
brating a feast which becomes general every seventh 
year; the parliament of the nation being then dis- 



solved, and another appointed to be chosen. This 
solemnity falls infinitely short of our feast of the 
Lanterns, in magnificence and splendour; it is also 
surpassed by others of the East in unanimity and 
pure devotion; but no festival in the world can 
compare with it for eating. Their eating, indeed, 
amazes me ; had I five hundred heads, and were 
each head furnished with brains, yet would they 
all be insufficient to compute the number of cows, 
pigs, geese, and turkeys, which upon this occasion 
die for the good of their country ! 

To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand 
ingredient in all English parties of zeal, business, 
or amusement. When a church is to be built, or 
an hospital endowed, the directors assemble, and 
instead of consulting upon it, they eat upon it, by 
which means the business goes forward with suc- 
cess. When the poor are to be relieved, the offi- 
cers appointed to dole out public charity assemble 
and eat upon it. Nor has it ever been known that 
they filled the bellies of the poor till they had pre- 
viously satisfied their own. But in the election of 
magistrates, the people seem to exceed all bounds ; 
the merits of a candidate are often measured by the 
number of his treats ; his constitutents assemble, 
eat upon him, and lend their applause, not to his in- 
tegrity or sense, but to the quantities of his beef 
and brandy. 

And yet I could forgive this people their plenti 
ful meals on this occasion, as it is extremely natural 
for every man to eat a great deal when he gets it 
for nothing ; but what amazes me is, that all this 
good living no way contributes to improve their 
good-humour. On the contrary, they seem to lose 
their temper as they lose their appetites ; every 
morsel they swallow, and every glass they pour 
down, serves to increase their animosity. Many 
an honest man, before as harmless as a tame rab- 
bit, when loaded with a single election dinner, has 
become more dangerous than a charged culverin. 
Upon one of these occasions, I have actually seen 
a bloody-minded man-milliner sally forth at the 
head of a mob, determined to face a desperate pas- 
try-cook, who was general of the opposite party. 

But you must not suppose they are without a 
pretext for thus beating each other. On the con- 
trary, no man here is so uncivilized as to beat his 
neiohbour without producing very sufficient rea- 
sons. One candidate, for instance, treats with 
gin, a spirit of their own manufacture ; another al- 
ways drinks brandy, imported from abroad. Brandy 
is a wholesome liquor; gin a hquor wholly their 
own. This then furnishes an obvious cause of 
quarrel, whether it be most reasonable to get drunk 
with gin, or get drunk with brandy? The mob 
meet upon the debate ; fight themselves sober ; and 
then draw off to get drunk again, and charge for 
another encounter. So that the English may now 
[properly be said to be engaged in war; since, while 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



383 



they are subduing their enemies abroad, they are 
breaking each other's heads at home. 

I lately made an excursion to a neighbouring 
town, in order to be a spectator of the ceremonies 
practised upon this occasion. I left London in 
company with three fiddlers, nine dozen of hams, 
and a corporation poet, which were designed as 
reinforcements to the gin-drinking party. We 
entered the town with a very good face ; the fiddlers, 
no way intimidated by the enemy, kept handling 
their arms up the principal street. By this prudent 
manoeuvre they took peaceable possession of their 
head-quarters, amidst the shouts of multitudes, 
who seemed perfectly rejoiced at hearing their mu- 
sic, but above all at seeing their bacon. 

I must own, I could not avoid being pleased to 
see all ranks of people on this occasion levelled in- 
to an equality, and the poor, in some measure, en- 
joy the primitive privileges of nature. If there was 
any distinction shown, the lowest of the people 
seemed to receive it from the rich. I could per- 
ceive a cobbler with a levee at his door, and a haber- 
dasher giving audience from behind his counter. 
But my reflections were soon interrupted by a 
mob, who demanded whether I was for the distil- 
lery or the brewery? As these were terms with 
which I was totally unacquainted, I chose at first 
to be silent , however, I know liot what might have 
been the consequence of my reserve, had not the 
attention of the mob been called off to a skirmish 
between a brandy-drinker's cow and a gin-drink- 
er's mastiff, which turned out, greatly to the satis- 
faction of the mob, in favour of the mastiff". 

This spectacle, which afforded high entertain- 
ment, was at last ended by the appearance of one 
of the candidates, who came to harangue the mob : 
he made a very pathetic speech upon the late ex- 
cessive importation ot ,. breign drams, and the down- 
fal of the distillery ; I could see some of the audi- 
ence shed tears. He was accompanied in his pro- 
cession by Mrs. Deputy and Mrs. Mayoress. 
Mrs. Deputy was not in the least in Kquor ; and 
as for Mrs. Mayoress, one ofthe spectators assured 
me in my ear, that — she was a very fine woman 
before she had the small-pox. 

Mixing with the crowd, I was now conducted 
to the hall where the magistrates are chosen : but 
what tongue can describe this scene of confusion ! 
the whole crowd seemed equally inspired with 
anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism, and punch. I 
remarked one figure that was carried up by two 
men upon this occasion. I at first began to pity 
his infirmities as natural, but soon found the fellow 
so drunk that he could not stand; another made 
his appearance to give his vote, but though he 
could stand, he actually lost the use of his tongue, 
and remained silent ; a third who, though exces- 
sively drunk, could both stand and speak, being 
asked the candidate's name for whom he voted, 



could be prevailed upon to make no other answer 
but " tobacco and brandy." In short, an election- 
hall seems to be a theatre, where every passion is 
seen without disguise ; a school, where fools may 
readily become worse, and where philosophers may 
gather wisdom. Adieu. 



LETTER CXIII. 

' From the Same. 

The disputes among the learned here are now 
carried on in a much more compendious manner 
than formerly. There was a time when folio 
was brought to oppose folio, and a champion was 
often listed for life under the banners of a single 
sorites. At present, the controversy is decided in 
a summary way ; an epigram or an acrostic finish 
es the debate, and the combatant, like the incur- 
sive Tartar, advances and retires with a single 
blow. 

An important Hterary debate at present en- 
grosses the attention of the town. It is carried on 
with sharpness, and a proper share of this epigram- 
matical fury. An author, it seems, has taken an 
aversion to the faces of several players, and has 
written verses to prove his dislike ; the players fall 
upon the author, and assure the town he must be 
dull, and their faces must be good, because he wants 
a dinner : a critic comes to the poet's assistance, 
asserting that the verses were perfectly original, 
and so smart, that he could never have written 
them without the assistance of friends ; the friends, 
upon this, arraign the critic, and plainly prove the 
verses to be all the author's own. So at it they 
are, all four together by the ears; the friends at 
the critic, the critic at the players, the players a 
the author, and the author at the players again. 
It is impossible to determine how this many-sided 
contest will end, or which party to adhere to. The 
town, without siding with any, views the combat 
in suspense, like the fabled hero of antiquity, who 
beheld the earth-born brothers give and receive - 
mutual wounds, and fall by indiscriminate destruc- 
tion. 

This is, in some measure, the state of the pre- 
sent dispute ; but the combatants here differ in one 
respect from the champions of the fable. Every 
new wound only gives vigour for another blow; 
though they appear to strike, they are in fact mu- 
tually swelling themselves into consideration, and 
thus advertising each other into fame. " To-day," 
cays one, "my name shall be in the Gazette, the 
next day my rival's ; people will naturally inquire 
about us ; thus we shall at least make a noise in the 
streets, though we have got nothing to sell." I 
have read of a dispute of a similar nature, which 
was managed here about twenty years ago. Hilde- 



S84 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



brand Jacob, as I think he was called, and Charles 
Johnson, were poets, both at that time possessed 
of great reputation ; for Johnson had written eleven 
plays, acted with great success ; and Jacob, though 
he had written but five, had five times thanked the 
town for their unmerited applause. They soon 
became mutually enamoured of each other's talents ; 
they wrote, they felt, they challenged the town for 
each other. Johnson assured the public, that no 
poet alive had the easy simplicity of Jacob, and Ja- 
cob exhibited Johnson as a masterpiece in the pa- 
thetic. Their mutual praise was not without ef- 
fect ; the town saw their plays, were in raptures, 
read, and, without censuring them, forgot them. 
So formidable a union, however, was soon opposed 
by Tibbald. Tibbald asserted that the tragedies 
of the one had faults, and the comedies of the other 
substituted wit for vivacity : the combinedchampions 
flew at him like tigers, arraigned the censurer's 
judgment, and impeached his sincerity. It was a 
long time a dispute among the learned, which was 
in fact the greatest man, Jacob, Johnson, or Tib- 
bald ; they had all written for the stage with great 
success, their names were seen in almost every pa- 
per, and their works in every coflee-house. How- 
ever, in the hottest of the dispute, a fourth com- 
batant made his appearance, and swept away the 
three combatants, tragedy, comedy, and all, into 
tindistinguished ruin. 

From this time they seemed consigned into the 
hands of criticism ; scarcely a day passed in which 
they were not arraigned as detested writers. The 
critics, those enemies of Dryden and Pope, were 
their enemies. So Jacob and Johnson, instead of 
mending by criticism, called it envy; and, because 
Dryden and Pope were censured, they compared 
themselves to Dryden and Pope. 

But to return. The weapon chiefly used in the 
present controversy is epigram; and certainly never 
was a keener made use of. They have discovered 
surprising sharpness on both sides. The first that 
came out upon this occasion was a new kind of com- 
position in this way, and might more properly be 
called an epigrammatic thesis than an epigram. 
-It consists, first, of an argument in prose ; next 
follows a motto from Roscommon ; then comes the 
epigram ; and, lastly, notes serving to explaui the 
epigram. But you shall have it with all its deco- 
rations. 

AN EPIGRAM, 

Addressed to the Gentlemen reflected on in the 
RosciAD, a Poem, by the Author. 

Worried with debts, and past all hopes of bail, 
His pen he prostitutes, t' avoid a gaol. — Roscom. 

" Let not the hungry Bavius' angry stroke 
Awake resentment, or your rage provoke; 



But, pitying his distress, let virtue* shine, 
And giving each yourbounty,t let him dine; 
For, thus retain'd, as learned counsel can, 
Each case, however bad, he'll new japan 
And, by a quick transition, plainly show 
'Twas no defect of your's, but -pocket low. 
That caused his putrid kennel to o'erflow." 

The last lines are certainly executed in a very 
masterly manner. It is of that species of argu- 
mentation called the perplexing. It effectually 
flings the antagonist into a mist ; there is no an- 
swering it : the laugh is raised against him, while - 
he is endeavouring to find out the jest. At once 
he shows, that the author has a kennel, and that 
his kennel is putrid, and that his putrid kennel 
overflows. But why does it overflow? It over- 
flows, because the author happens to have low 
pockets ! 

There was also another new attempt in this 
way; a prosaic epigram which came out upon this 
occasion. This is so full of matter, that a critic 
might split It into fifteen epigrams, each properly 
fitted with its sting. You shall see it. 

To G. C. and R. L. 

" Twas you, or I, or he, or all together, 

'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not 

whether. 
This I believe, between us great or small. 
You, I, he, wrote it not — 'twas Churchill's all." 

There, there's a perplex ! I could have wished^ 
to make it quite perfect, the author, as in the case 
before, had added notes. Almost every word ad- 
mits a scoHum, and a long one too. I, YOU, HE ! 
Suppose a stranger should ask, "and who are 
youl " Here are three obscure persons spoken ofj 
that may in a short time be utterly forgotten. Their 
names should have consequently been mentioned 
in notes at the bottom. But when the reader comes 
to the words great and small, the maze is inextri- 
cable. Here the stranger may dive for a mystery, 
without ever reaching the bottom. Let him know, 
then, that small is a word purely introduced to 
make good rhyme, and great was a very proper 
r.'ord to keep small company. 

Yet, by being thus a spectator of otherV dangers, 
I must own I begin to tremble in this literary con- 
test for my own. I begin to fear that my challenge 
to Doctor Rock was unadvised, and has procured 
me more antagonists than I had at first expected. 
I have received private letters from several of the 
literati here, that fill my soul with apprehension. 
I may safely aver, that I never gave any creature 
in this good city offence, except only my rival 



' Charity. 

1 Settled at one shilling, the price of the poem. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



3S5 



Doctor Rock ; yet by the letters I every day re- 
ceive, and by some I have seen printed, I am ar- 
raigned at one time as being a dull fellow, at 
another as being pert ; I am here petulant, there I 
am heavy. By the head of my ancestors, they treat 
me with more inhumanity than a flying fish. If I 
dive and run my nose to the bottom, there a de 
vouring shark is ready to swallow me up ; if I skim 
the surface, a pack of dolphins are at my tail to 
snap me; but when I take wing, and attempt to 
escape them by flight, I become a prey to every 
ravenous bird that winnows the bosom of the deep. 
Adieu. 



LETTER CXIV. 

From the Same. 

The formalities, delays, and disappointments, 
that precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually 
as numerous as those previous to a treaty of peace. 
The laws of this country are finely calculated to 
promote all commerce, but the commerce between 
the sexes. Their encouragements for propagating 
hemp, madder, and tobacco, are indeed admirable ! 
Marriages are the only commodity that meets with 
none. 

Yet from the vernal softness of the air, the ver- 
dure of the fields, the transparency of the streams, 
and the beauty of the women, I know few coun- 
tries more proper to invite to courtship. Here love 
might sport among painted lawns and warbling 
groves, and revel amidst gales, wafting at once both 
fragrance and harmony. Yet it seems he has for- 
saken the island; and, when a couple are now to 
be married, mutual love, or a union of minds, is 
the last and most trifling consideration. If their 
goods and chattels can be brought to unite, their 
sympathetic souls are ever ready to guarantee the 
treaty. The gentleman's mortgaged lawn becomes 
enamoured of the lady's marriageable grove ; the 
match is struck up, and both parties are piously in 
love — according to act of parliament. 

Thus, they who have fortune are possessed at 
least of something that is lovely ; but I actually 
pity those that have none. I am told there was a 
time when ladies, with no other merit but youth, 
virtue, and beauty, had a chance for husbands, at 
least, among the ministers of the church, or the 
oflScers of the army. The blush and innocence of 
sixteen was said to have a powerful influence over 
these two professions. But of late, all the httle 
traflSiC of blushing, ogling, dimpling, and smiling, 
has been forbidden by an act in that case wisely 
made and provided. A lady's whole cargo of 
smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared utterly con- 
traband, till she arrives in the warm latitudes of 
twenty-two, where commodities of this nature are 
25 



too oflen found to decay. She is then permitted 
to dimple and smile when the dimples and smiles 
begin to forsake her; and, when perhaps grown 
ugly, is charitably intrusted with an unUmiteduse 
of her charms. Her lovers, however, by this time 
have forsaken her; the captain has changed for 
another mistress; the priest himself leaves her in 
solitude to bewail her virginity; and she dies even 
without benefit of clergy. 

Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love 
with as much earnestness as the rudest savage of 
Sofala. The Genius is surely now no more. In 
every region I find enemies in arms to oppress 
him. Avarice in Europe, jealousy in Persia, cere- 
mony in China, poverty among the Tartars, and 
lust in Circassia, are all prepared to oppose his 
power. The Genius is certainly banished from 
earth, though once adored under such a variety 
of forms. He is nowhere to be found ; and all tha:t 
the ladies of each country can produce, are but a 
few trifling relics, as instances of his former resi- 
dence and favour. 

" The Genius of Love," says the eastern apo- 
logue, "had long resided in the happy plains of 
Abra, where every breeze was health, and every 
sound produced tranquillity. His temple at first 
was crowded, but every age lessened the number 
of his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Perceiving, 
therefore, his altars at length quite deserted, he 
was resolved to remove to some more propitious 
region, and he apprised the fair sex of every coun- 
try where he could hope for a proper recepti6n, to 
assert their right to his presence among them. In 
return to this proclamation, embassies were sent 
from the ladies of every part of the world to in- 
vite him, and to display the superiority of their 
claims. 

" And first, the beauties of China appeared. No 
country could compare with them for modesty, 
either of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were 
never lifted from the ground ; their robes of the 
most beautiful silk hid their hands, bosom, and 
neck, while their faces only were left uncovered. 
They indulged no airs that might express loose 
desire, and they seemed to study only the graces 
of inanimate beauty. Their black teeth, and pluck- 
ed eyebrows, were, however, alleged by the Genius 
against them, and he set them entirely aside when 
he came to examine their little feet. 

" The beauties of Circassia next made their ap- 
pearance. They advanced hand-in-hand, singing 
the most immodest airs, and leading up a dance 
in the most luxurious attitudes. Their dress was 
but half a covering ; the neck, the left breast, and 
all the limbs, were exposed to view, which, after 
some time, seemed rather to satiate than inflame 
desire. The lily and the rose contended in form- 
ing their complexions; and a soft sleepiness of eye 
a«Med irresi*fibl«i poignancy to their charms: but 



386 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



their beauties were obtruded, not offered, to their I 
admirers; they seemed to give rather than receive 
courtship ; and the Genius of Love dismissed them 
as unworthy his regard, since they exchanged the 
duties of love, and made themselves not the pur- 
sued, but the pursuing sex. 

" The kingdom of Cashmire next produced its 
charming deputies. This happy region seemed 
pecuUarly sequestered by nature for his abode. 
Shady mountains fenced it on one side from the 
scorching sun, and sea-born breezes, on the other, 
gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their com- 
plexions were of a bright yellow, that appeared al- 
most transparent, while the crimson tulip seemed 
to blossom on their cheeks. Their features and 
limbs were delicate beyond the statuary's power to 
express, and their teeth whiter than their own 
ivory. He was almost persuaded to reside among 
them, when unfortunately one of the ladies talked 
of appointing his seragho. 

"In this procession the naked inhabitants of 
Southern America would not be left beliind; their 
charms were found to surpass whatever the warm- 
est imagination could conceive ; and served to show, 
that beauty could be perfect, even with the seem- 
ing disadvantage of a brown complexion. But 
their savage education rendered them utterly un- 
quaUfied to make the proper use of their power, and 
they were rejected as being incapable of uniting 
mental with sensual satisfaction. In this manner, 
the deputies of other kingdoms had their suits re- 
jected : the black beauties of Benin, and the tawny 
daughters of Borneo ; the women of Wida with 
well-scarred faces, and the hideous virgins of Caf- 
fraria; the squab'ladies of Lapland, three feet high, 
and the giant fair ones of Patagonia. 

" The beauties of Europe at last appeared ; grace 
was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in 
every eye. It was the universal opinion, while 
they were approaching, that they would prevail ; 
and the Genius seemed to lend them his most 
favourable attention. They opened their preten- 
sions with the utmost modesty ; but unfortunately, 
as their orator proceeded, she happened to let fall 
the words, house in town, settlement, and pin- 
money. These seemingly htfmless terms had in- 
stantly a surprising effect : the Genius vsdth un- 
governable rage burst from amidst the circle ; and, 
waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, and 
flew back to those ethereal mansions from whence 
he descended. 

" The whole assembly was struck with amaze- 
ment ; they now justly apprehended, that female 
power would be no more, since Love had forsaken 
them. They continued some time thus in a state 
of torpid despair, when it was proposed by one of 
the number, that, since the real Genius had left 
them, in order to continue their power, they should 
set up an idol in las stead; and that the ladles of 



every country should furnish him with what each 
liked best. This proposal was instantly rehshed 
and agreed to. An idol was formed by uniting 
the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no 
way resembUng the departed Genius. The ladies 
of China furnished the monster with wings ; those 
of Cashmire supplied him with horns ; the dames 
of Europe clapped a purse in his hand ; and^ the 
virgins of Congo furnished him with a tail. Since 
that tune, all the vows addressed to Love are in 
reality paid to the idol ; but, as in other false re- 
ligions, the adoration seems most fervent where 
the heart is least sincere." Adieu. 



LETTER CXV. 



From the Same. 



Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate m 
the praise of human nature. The dignity of man 
is a subject that has always been the favourite 
theme of humanity : they have declaimed with that 
ostentation which usually accompanies such as are 
sure of having a partial audience ; they have ob- 
tained victories, because there were none to oppose. 
Yet, from all I have ever read or seen, men appear 
more apt to err by having too high, than by having 
too despicable, an opinion of their nature ; and, by 
attempting to exalt their original place in creation, 
depress their real value in society. 

The most ignorant nations have always been 
found to think most highly of themselves. The 
Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned 
in their glory and preservation; to have fought 
their battles, and inspired their teachers: their 
wizards are said to be familiar with heaven ; and 
every hero has a guard of angels, as well as men, 
to attend him. When the Portuguese first came 
among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of 
Africa, these savage nations readily allowed the 
strangers more skUl in navigation and Avar; yet 
still considered them at best but as useful servants, 
brought to their coast by their guardian serpent, 
to supply them with luxuries they could have lived 
without. Though they could grant the Portuguese 
more riches, they could never allow them to have 
such a kmg as their Tottimondelem, who wore a 
bracelet of shells round his neck, and whose legs 
were covered with ivory. 

In this manner, examine a savage in the history 
of his country and predecessors, you ever find his 
warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages ac- 
quainted with more than possible knowledge. 
Human nature is to him an unknown country : he 
thinks it capable of great things, because he is ig- 
norant of its boundaries; whatever can be con- 
ceived to be done, he allows to be possible, and 
whatever is possible, he conjectures must have been 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



387 



done. He never measures the actions and powers 
of others by what himself is able to perform ; nor 
makes a proper estimate of the greatness of his 
fellows, by bringing it to the standard of his own 
incapacity. He is satisfied to be one of a country 
where mighty things have been ; and imagines the 
fancied powers of others reflect a lustre on him- 
self. Thus, by degrees, he loses the idea of his 
own insignificance in a confused notion of the ex- 
traordinary powers of humanity, and is willing to 
grant extraordinary gifts to every pretender, be- 
cause unacquainted with their claims. 

This is the reason why demi-gods and heroes 
have ever been erected in times or countries of ig- 
norance and barbarity : they addressed a people, 
who had high opinions of hvmian nature, because 
they were ignorant how far it could extend ; they 
addressed a people, who were willing to allow that 
men should be gods, because they were yet imper- 
fectly acquainted with God and with man. These 
impostors knew, that all men are naturally fond of 
seeing something very great made from the little 
materials of humanity ; that ignorant nations are 
not more proud of building a tower to reach to hea- 
ven, or a pyramid to last for ages, than of raising up a 
demi-god of their own country and creation. The 
same pride that erects a colossus or a pyramid, in- 
stals a god or a hero ; but though the adoring sav- 
age can raise his colossus to the clouds, he can ex- 
alt the hero not one inch above the standard of 
humanity: incapable, therefore, of exalting the 
idol, he debases himself, and falls prostrate before 
liim. 

When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea 
of the dignity of his species, he and the gods be- 
come perfectly intimate; men are but angels, 
angels are but men, nay but servants, that stand 
in waiting to execute human commands. The 
Persians, for instance, thus address their prophet 
Haly :* "I salute thee, glorious creator, of whom 
the sun is but the shadow. Masterpiece of the 
Lord of human creatures, great star of justice and 
religion ! The sea is not rich and liberal, but by 
the gifts of thy munificent hands. The angel 
treasurer of heaven reaps his harvest in the fertile 
gardens of the purity of thy nature. Theprimum 
mobile would never dart the ball of the sim through 
the trunk of heaven, were it not to serve the morn- 
ing out of the extreme love she has for thee. The 
angel Gabriel, messenger of truth, every day kisses 
the groundsel of thy gate. Were there a place 
more exalted than the most high throne of God, I 
would affirm it to be thy place, O master of the 
faithful! Gabriel, with all his art and knowledge, 
is but a mere scholar to thee." Thus, my friend, 
men think proper to treat angels; but if indeed 
there be such an order of beings, with what a de- 



' Chardin's Travels, p. 402. 



gree of satirical contempt must they listen to the 
songs of little mortals thus flattering each other! 
thus to see creatures, wiser indeed than the mon- 
key, and more active than the oyster, claiming to 
themselves the mastery of heaven ; minims, the 
tenants of an atom, thus arrogating a partnership 
in the creation of universal nature ! Sure Heaven 
is kind, that launches no thunder at those guilty 
heads ! but it is kind, and regards their follies with 
pity, nor will destroy creatures that it loved into 
being. 

But, whatever success this practice of making 
demi-gods might have been attended with in bar- 
barous nations, I do not know that any man be- 
came a god in a country where the inhabitants 
were refined. Such countries generally have too 
close an inspection into human weakness to think 
it invested with celestial power. They sometimes 
indeed admit the gods of strangers, or of their an- 
cestors, which had their existence in times of ob- 
scurity; their weakness being forgotten, while 
nothing but their power and their miracles were 
remembered. The Chinese, for instance, never 
had a god of their own country : the idols which 
the vulgar worship at this day were brought from 
the barbarous nations around them. The Roman 
emperors who pretended to divinity were generally 
taught by a poniard that they were mortal ; and 
Alexander, though he passed among barbarous 
countries for a real god, could never persuade his 
polite countrymen into a similitude of thinking. 
The Lacedemonians shrewdly complied with his 
commands by the following sarcastic edict : 

E/ A.Ki^a.vS'f.cii Qt^uMT'U iivcu ©eof, Qio; icrTce. 

Adieu. 



LETTER CXVI. 

From the Same. 



There is something irresistibly pleasing in the 
conversation of a fine woman; even though her 
tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches 
wisdom. The mind sympathizes with the regu- 
larity of the object in view, and, struck with exter- 
nal grace, vibrates into respondent harmony. In 
this agreeable disposition, I lately found myself in 
company with my friend and his niece. Our con- 
versation turned upon love, which she seemed 
equally capable of defending and inspiring. We 
were each of different opinions upon this subject : 
the lady insisted that it was a natural and univer- 
sal passion, and produced the happiness of those 
who cultivated it with proper precaution. My 
friend denied it to be the work of nature, but al- 
lowed it to have a real existence, and affirmed, that 
it was of infinite service in refining society ; while 
I, to keep up the dispute, aflfirmed it to be merely a 



388 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



name, first used by the cunning part of the fair 
sex, and admitted by the silly part of ours, there- 
fore no way more natural than taking snuff, or 
chewing opium. 

" How is it possible," cried I, " that such a pas- 
sion can be natural, when our opinions even of 
beauty, which inspires it, are entirely the result of 
fashion and caprice? The ancients, who pretended 
to be connoisseurs in the art, have praised narrow 
foreheads, red hair, and eyebrows that joined each 
other above the nose. Such was the charms that 
captivated Catullus, Ovid, and Anacreon. Ladies 
would at present be out of humour, if their lovers 
praised them for such graces ; and should an an- 
tique beauty now revive, her face would certainly 
be put under the discipline of the tweezer, fore- 
head-cloth, and lead comb, before it could be seen 
in public company. 

"But the difference between the ancient and 
moderns is not so great as between the different 
countries of the present world. A lover of Gon- 
gora, for instance, sighs for thick lips ; a Chinese 
lover is poetical in praise of thin. In Circassia, a 
straight nose is thought most consistent with beau- 
ty: cross but a mountain which separates it from 
the Tartars, and there flat noses, tawny skins, and 
eyes three inches asunder, are all the fashion. In 
Persia, and some other countries, a man, when he 
marries, chooses to have his bride a maid; in the 
Philippine Islands, if a bridegroom happens to per- 
ceive, on the first night, that he is put off with a 
virgin, the marriage is declared void to all intents 
and purposes, and the bride sent back with dis- 
grace. In some parts of the East, a woman of 
beauty, properly fed up for sale, often amounts to 
one hundred crowns: in the kingdom of Loango, 
ladies of the very best fashion are sold for a pig; 
queens, however, sell better, and sometimes amount 
to a cow. In short, turn even to England, don't 
I there see the beautiful part of the sex neglected; 
and none now marrying or making love, but old 
men and old women that have saved money! Don't 
I see beauty from fifteen to twenty-one, rendered 
null and void to all intents and purposes, and those 
six precious years of womanhood put under a stat- 
ute of virginity! What! shall I call that rancid pas- 
sion love, which passes between an old bachelor of 
fifty-six and a widow lady of forty-nine? Never! 
never! what advantage is society to reap from an 
intercourse where the big belly is oftenest on the 
man's side? Would any persuade me that such a 
passion was natural, unless the human race were 
more fit for love as they approached the decUne, 
and, Uke silk worms, became breeders just before 
they expired." 

" Whether love be natural or no," replied my 
fiiend, gravely, " it contributes to the happiness of 
every society into which it is introduced. All our 
pleasures are short, and can only charm at inter- 



vals ; love is a method of protracting our greatest 
pleasure; and surely that gamester, who plays the 
greatest stake to the best advantage, will, at the end 
of life, rise victorious. This was the opinion of 
Vanini, who aflGirmed, that every hour was lost 
which was not spent in love. His accusers were 
unable to comprehend his meaning ; and the poor 
advocate for love was burned in flames, alas I no 
way metaphorical. But whatever advantages the 
individual may reap from this passion, society will 
certainly be refined and improved by its introduc- 
tion ; all laws calculated to discourage it, tend to 
imbrute the species, and weaken the state. Though 
it can not plant morals in the human breast, it cul- 
tivates them when there; pity, generosity, and 
honour, receive a brighter polish from its assist- 
ance; and a single amour is sufiicient entirely to 
brush off the clown. 

" But it is an exotic of the most deUcate consti- 
tution ; it requires the greatest art to introduce it 
into a state, and the smallest discouragement Ls suf- 
ficient to repress it again. Let us only consider 
with what ease it was formerly extinguished in 
Rome, and with what difficulty it was lately re- 
vived in Europe : it seemed to sleep for ages, and 
at last fought its way among us through tilts, 
tournaments, dragons, and all the dreams of chi- 
valry. The rest of the world, China only excepted, 
are, and have ever been utter strangers to its de- 
lights and advantages. In other countries, as men 
find themselves stronger than women, they lay a 
claim to a rigorous superiority: this is natural, and 
love, which gives up this natural advantage, must 
certaiidy be the effect of art, — an art calculated to 
lengthen out our happier moments, and add new 
graces to society." 

I entirely acquiesce in your sentiments," says 
the lady, " with regard to the advantages of this 
passion, but can not avoid giving it a nobler origin 
than you have been pleased to assign. I must 
think, that those countries, where it is rejected, are 
obliged to have recourse to art to stifle so natural a 
production, and those nations, where it is cultivat- 
ed, only make nearer advances to nature. The same 
efforts that are used in some places to suppress 
pity, and other natural passions, may have been 
employed to extinguish love. No nation, however 
unpolished, is remarkable for irmocence that is not 
famous for passion; it has flourished in the coldest, 
as well as in the warmest regions. Even in the 
sultry wilds of Southern America, the lover is not 
satisfied with possessing his mistress's person with- 
out having her mind : 

" In all my Enna's beauties bless'd, 

Amidst profusion still I pine; 
For though she gives me up her breast, 

Its panting tenant is not mine."* 



' Translation of a South- American Ode. 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



389 



" But the effects of love are too violent to be the 
result of an artificial passion. Nor is it in the 
power of fashion to force the constitution into those 
changes which we every day observe. Several 
have died of it. Few lovers are unacquainted with 
the fate of the two Italian lovers, Da Corsin and 
Julia Bellamano, who, after a long separation, ex- 
pired with pleasure in each other's arms. Such 
instances are too strong confirmations of the reality 
of the passion, and serve to show, that suppressing 
it is but opposing the natural dictates of the heart." 
Adieu. 



LETTER CXVIL 



From the Same. 



The clock just struck two, the expiring taper 
rises and sinks in the socket, the watchman forgets 
the hour in slumber, the laborious and the happy 
are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, 
guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once 
more fills the destroying bowl, the robber walks 
his midnight round, and the suicide lifts his guilty 
arm against his own sacred person. 

Let me no longer waste the night over the page 
of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius, 
but pursue the solitary walk, where Vanity, ever 
changing, but a few hours past walked before me, 
where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a 
froward child, seems hushed with her own impor- 
tunities. 

What a gloom hangs all around! The dying 
lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is 
heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant 
watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is for- 
gotten, an hour like this may well display the 
emptiness of human vanity. 

There will come a time, when this temporary 
solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, 
like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert 
in its room. 

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed 
in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just, 
and as unbounded, and, with short-sighted pre- 
sumption, promised themselves immortality ! Pos- 
terity can hardly trace the situation of some : the 
sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins 
of others ; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom, 
and feels the transience of every sublunary pos- 
session. 

"Here," he cries, "stood their citadel, now 
grown over with weeds ; there their senate-house, 
but now the haunt of every noxious reptile ; tem- 
ples and theatres stood here, now only an undis- 
tinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for 
luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The 
rewards of the state were conferred on amusing 



and not on useful members of society. Their riches 
and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at 
first repulsed, returned again, conquered by perse- 
verance, and at last swept the defendants into un- 
distinguished destruction." 

How few appear in those streets which but some 
few hours ago were crowded! and those who ap- 
pear, now no longer wear their daily mask, nor at- 
tempt to hide their lewdness or their misery. 

But who are those who make the streets their 
couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness 
at the doors of the opulent 7 These are strangers, 
wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are 
too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses 
are too great even for pity. Their vn-etchedness 
excites rather horror than pity. Some are without 
the covering even of rags, and others emaciated 
with disease : the world has disclaimed them ; so- 
ciety turns its back upon their distress, and has 
given them up to nakedness and hunger. These 
poor shivering females have once seen happier 
days, and been flattered into beauty. They have 
been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain, and 
are now turned out to meet the severity of winter. 
Perhaps, now lying at the doors of their betrayers, 
they sue to wretches whose hearts are insensible, 
or debauchees who ma}' curse but will not relieve 
them. 

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the 
sufferings of wretches I can not reJfeve ! Poor 
houseless creatures! the world will give you re- 
proaches, but will not give you«3lief. The sUght- 
est misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary 
uneasiness of the rich, are aggravated with all the 
power of eloquence, and held up to engage our at- 
tention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep 
unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species 
of t3Tani>y; and every law which gives others se- 
curity becomes an enemy to them. 

Why was this heart of mine formed with so 
much sensibiUty? or why was not my fortune 
adapted to its impulse? Tenderness, without a 
capacity of relieving, only makes the man who 
feels it more wretched than the object which sues 
for assistance. Adieu. 



LETTER CXVIII. 

From Fum Hoam to lien Chi Altangi, the discontented Wan- 
derer, by the way of Moscow. 

I HAVE been just sent upon an embassy to Ja- 
pan ; my commission is to be dispatched in four 
days, and you can hardly conceive the pleasure I 
shall find upon revisiting my native country. I 
shall leave with joy this proud, barbarous, inhos- 
pitable region, where every object conspires to di- 
minish my satisfaction and increase my patriotism. 



S90 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



But though I find the inhabitants savage, yet 
the Dutch merchants who are permitted to trade 
hither seem still more detestable. They have 
raised my dislike to Europe in general ; by them I 
learn how low avarice can degrade human nature ; 
how many indignities an European will suffer for 
gain. 

I was present at an audience given by the em- 
peror to the Dutch envoy, who had sent several 
presents to all the courtiers some days previous to 
his admission ; but he was obliged to attend those 
designed for the emperor himself From the ac- 
counts I had heard of this ceremony, my curiosity 
prompted me to be a spectator of the whole. 

First went the presents, set out on beautiful 
enamelled tables, adorned with flowers, borne on 
men's shoulders, and followed by Japanese music 
and dancers. From so great respect paid to the 
gifts themselves, I had fancied the donors must have 
received almost divine honours. But about a quar- 
ter of an hour after the presents had been carried 
in triumph, the envoy and his train were brought 
forward. They were covered from head to foot 
with long black veils, which prevented their seeing, 
each led by a conductor, chosen from the meanest of 
the people. In this dishonourable manner, having 
traversed the city of Jedo, they at length arrived at 
the palace gate ; and, after waiting half an hour, 
were admitted into the guard-room. Here their 
eyes were uncovered, and in about an hour the 
gentleman-usher introduced them into the hall of 
audience. The emperor was at length shown, sit- 
ting in a kind of alcove at the upper end of the 
room, and the Dutch envoy was conducted towards 
the throne. 

As soon as he had approached within a certain 
distance, the gentleman-usher cried o\it with a loud 
voice, Holanda Capitan; upon these vords the 
envoy fell flat upon the ground, and crept upon his 
hands and feet towards the throne. Still ap{>roach- 
ing, he reared himself upon his knees, and then 
bowed his forehead to the ground. These cere- 
monies being over, he was directed to withdraw, 
still grovelling on his belly, and going backward 
like a lobster. 

Men must be excessively fond of riches, when 
they are earned with such circumstances of abject 
submission. Do the Europeans worship Heaven 
itself with marks of more profound respect? Do 
they confer those honours on the Supreme of Be- 
ings, which they pay to a barbarous king, who gives 
them a permission to purchase trinkets and porce- 
lain? What a glorious exchange, to forfeit their 
national honour, and even their title to humanity, 
for a screen or a snuff-box ! 

If these ceremonies essayed in the first audience 
appeared mortifying, those which were practised in 
the second were infinitely more so. In the second 
audience, the emperor and the ladies of the court 



were placed behind lattices, in such a manner as to 
see without being seen. Here all the Europeans 
were directed to pass in review, and grovel and act 
the serpent as before : with this spectacle the whole 
court seemed highly delighted. The strangers 
were asked a thousand ridiculous questions, as 
their names, and their ages ; they were ordered to 
write, to stand upright, to sit, to stoop, to compli- 
ment each other, to be drunk, to speak the Japanese 
language, to talk Dutch, to sing, to eat ; in short, 
they were ordered to do all that could satisfy the 
curiosity of women. 

Imagine, my dear Altangi, a set of grave men 
thus transformed into buffoons, and acting a part 
every whit as honourable as that of those instructed 
animals which are shown in the streets of Pekin 
to the mob on a holiday. Yet the ceremony did 
not end here, for every great lord of the court was 
to be visited in the same manner ; and their ladies, 
who took the whim from their husbands, were all 
equally fond of seeing the strangers perform, even 
the children seeming highly diverted with the 
dancing Dutchmen. 

" Alas," cried I to myself, upon returning from 
such a spectacle, " is this the nation which assumes 
such dignity at the court of Pekin ? Is this the 
people that appear so proud at home, and in every 
country where they have the least authority? 
How does a love of gain transform the gravest of 
mankind into the most contemptible and ridicu- 
lous ! I had rather continue poor all my life than 
become rich at such a rate. Perish those riches 
which are acquired at the expense of my honour 
or my humanity ! Let me quit," said I, " a coun- 
try where there are none but such as treat all others 
like slaves, and more detestable still, in suffering 
such treatment. I have seen enough of this nation 
to desire to see more of others. Let me leave a 
people suspicious to excess, whose morals are cor- 
rupted, and equally debased by superstition and 
vice ; where the sciences are left uncultivated, where 
the great are slaves to the prince, and tyrants to 
the people ; where the women are chaste only when 
debarred of the power of transgression ; where the 
true disciples of Confucius are not less persecuted 
than those of Christianity : in a word, a country 
where men are forbidden to think, and consequent- 
ly labour under the most miserable slavery, that 
of mental servitude." Adieu. 



LETTER CXIX. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

The misfortunes of the great, my friend, are held 
up to engage our attention, are enlarged upon in 
tones of declamation, and the world is called upon 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



391 



to gaze at the noble sufferers : they have at once 
the comfort of admiration and pity. 

Yet, where is the magnanimity of bearing mis- 
fortunes when the whole world is looking on 1 
Men, in such circumstances, can act bravely even 
from motives of vanity. He only, who, in the vale 
of obscurity, can brave adversity; who, without 
friends to encourage, acquaintances to pity, or even 
without hope to alleviate his distresses, can behave 
with tranquillity and indifference, is truly great : 
whether peasant or courtier, he deserves admira- 
tion, and should be held up for our imitation and 
respect. 

The miseries of the poor are, however, entirely 
disregarded ; though some undergo more real hard- 
ships in one day than the great in their whole 
lives. It is indeed inconceivable what difficulties 
the meanest English sailor or soldier endures with- 
out murmuring or regret. Every day to him is a 
day of misery, and yet he bears his hard fate with- 
out repining. 

With what indignation do I hear the heroes of 
tragedy complain of misfortunes and hardships, 
whose greatest calamity is founded in arrogance 
and pride ! Their severest distresses are pleasures, 
compared to what many of the adventuring poor 
every day sustain, without murmuring. These 
may eat, drink, and sleep ; have slaves to attend 
them, and are sure of subsistence for life ; while 
many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to wan- 
der, without a friend to comfort or to assist them, 
find enmity in every law, and are too poor to ob- 
tain even justice. 

I have been led into these reflections from acci- 
dentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow 
begging at one of the outlets of this town, with a 
wooden leg. I was curious to learn what had re- 
duced him to his present situation ; and, after giv- 
ing him what I thought proper, desired to know 
Itie history of his life and misfortunes, and the 
manner in which he was reduced to his present 
distress. — The disabled soldier, for such he was, 
with an intrepidity truly British, leaning on his I 
crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply 
with my request, and gave me his history as fol- 
lows: 

"As for misfortunes, sir, I can not pretend to 
have gone through more than others. Except the 
loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I 
don't know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have 
to complain : there are some who have lost both legs 
and an eye, but thank Heaven, it is not quite so 
bad with me. 

" My father was a labourer in the country, and 
died when I was five years old ; so I was put uj)on 
the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of 
a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to 
what parish I belonged, or where I was born ; so 
they sent me to another parish, and that parish 



sent me to a third; till at last it was thought I be- 
longed to no parish at all. At length, however, 
they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a 
scholar, and had actually learned my letters ; but 
the master of the work-house put me to business 
as soon as I was able to handle a mallet. 

" Here I lived an easy kind of a life for five years. 
I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my 
meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, 
I was not suffered to stir far from the house, for 
fear I should run away : but what of that 7 I had 
the liberty of the whole house, and the yard be- 
fore the door, and that was enough for me. 

" I was next bound out to a farmer, where I was 
up both early and late, but I ate and drank well, 
and liked my business well enough, till he died. 
Being then obliged to provide for myself, I was re- 
solved to go and seek ray fortune. Thus I lived, 
and went from town to town, working when I 
could get employment, and starving when I could 
get none, and might have lived so still ; but hap- 
pening one day to go through a field belonging to 
a magistrate, I spied a hare crossing the path just 
before me. I believe the devil put it in my head 
to fling my stick at it : well, what will you have 
on't ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away 
in triumph, when the Justice himself met me : he 
called me a villain, and collaring me, desired I 
would give an account of myself. I began imme- 
diately to give a full account of all that I knew of 
my breed, seed, and generation ; but, though I 
gave a very long account, the Justice said I could 
give no account of myself; so I was indicted, and 
found guilty of being poor, and sent to Newgate, 
in order to be transported to the plantations. 

" People may say this and that of being in gaol ; 
but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a 
place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my 
bellyfull to eat and drink, and did no work ; but 
alas ! this kind of life was too good to last forever : 
I was taken out of prison, after five montlis, put 
on board of a ship, and sent off with two hundred 
more. Our passage was but indifferent, for we 
were all confined in the hold, and died very fast, 
for want of sweet air and provisions ; but, for my 
part, I did not want meat, because I had a fever all 
the way. Providence was kind; when provisions 
grew short, it took away my desire of eating. 
When we came ashore, we were sold to the plant- 
ers. I was bound for seven years, and as I was 
no scholar, for I had forgot my letters, I was obliged 
to work among the negroes ; and served out my • 
time, as in duty bound to do. 

" When my time was expired, I worked my 
passage home, and glad I was to see Old England 
again, because I loved my country. O liberty ! 
liberty ! liberty ! that is the property of every 
Englishman, and I will die in its defence ! I was 
afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a 



392 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



vagabond once more, so did not much care to go 
into the country, but kept about town, and did 
little jobs when I could get them. I was very 
happy in this manner for some time ; till one even- 
ing, coming home from work, two men knocked 
me down, and then desired me to stand still. They 
belonged to a press-gang : I was carried before the 
Justice, and as I could give no account of myself 
(that was the thing that always hobbled me), I 
had my choice left, whether to go on board of a 
man of war, or list for a soldier. I chose to be a 
soldier ; and in this post of a gentleman I served 
two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of 
Val and Pontenoy, and received but one wound 
through the breast, which is troublesome to this 
day. 

" "When the peace came on, I was discharged ; 
and as I could not work, because my wound was 
sometimes painful, I listed for a landman in the 
East India Company's service. I here fought the 
French in six pitched battles; and verily believe, 
that if I could read and write, our captain would 
have given me promotion, and made me a corpo- 
ral. But that was not my good fortune ; I soon 
fell sick, and when I became good for nothing, got 
leave to return home again with forty pounds in my 
pocket, which I saved in the service. This was 
at the beginning of the present war, so I hoped to 
be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spend- 
ing my money ; but the government wanted men, 
and I was pressed again, before ever I could set 
foot on shore. 

*'The boatswain found me, as he said, an obsti- 
nate fellow : he swore that I understood my busi- 
ness perfectly well, but that I shammed Abraham 
merely to be idle. God knows, I knew nothing 
of sea business : he beat me without considering 
what he was about. But still my forty pounds 
was some comfort to me under every beating : the 
money was my comfort, and the money I might 
have had to this day, but that our ship was taken 
by the French, and so I lost it all. 

" Ourcrew was carried into a French prison, and 
many of them died, because they were not used to 
live in a gaol ; but for my part, it was nothing to 
me, for I was seasoned. One night, however, 
as I was sleeping on a bed of boards, with a warm 
blanket about me (for I always loved to lie well), 
I was awaked by the boatswain, who had a dark 
lantern in his hand. ' Jack,' says he to me, ' will 
you knock out the French sentry's brains 1' '1 
don't care,' says I, striving to keep myself awake, 
'if I lend a hand.' 'Then follow me,' says he, 
'and 1 hope we shall do business.' So up I got, 
and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes 1 
had, about ray middle, and went with him to fight 
the Frenchmen. We had no arms ; but one Eng- 
Mshman is able to beat five Frenchmen at any time ; 
«o we went down to the door, where both the gen- 



tries were posted, and rushing upon them, seized 
their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. 
From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay, 
and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the 
harbour, and put to sea. We had not been here 
three days, before we were taken up by an English 
privateer, who was glad of so many good hands ; 
and we consented to run our chance. However, 
we had not so much luck as we expected. In 
three days we fell in with a French man of war, 
of forty guns, while we had but twenty-three ; so 
to it we went. The fight lasted for three hours, 
and I verily believe we should have taken the 
Frenchman, but, unfortunately, we lost almost all 
our men, just as we were going to get the victory. 
I was once more in the power of the French, and 
I believe it would have gone hard with me, had I 
been brought back to my old gaol in Brest ; but, 
by good fortune, we were re-taken, and carried to 
England once more. 

" I had almost forget to tell you, that in this last 
engagement I was wounded in two places ; I lost 
four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot 
off. Had I had the good fortune to have lost my 
leg and use of my hand on board a king's ship, and 
not a privateer, I should have been entitled to 
clothing and maintenance during the rest of my 
life ; but that was not my chance ; one man is born 
with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with 
a wooden ladle. However, blessed be God, I en- 
joy good health, and have no enemy in this world 
that I know of, but the French and the Justice of 
Peace." 

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving my friend 
and me in admiration of his intrepidity and con^ 
tent ; nor could we avoid acknowledging, that an 
habitual acquaintance with misery is the truest 
school of fortitude and philosophy. Adieu. 



LETTER CXX. 



From the Same. 



The titles of European princes are rather more 
numerous than ours of Asia, but by no means so 
sublime. The king of Visapour or Pegu, not 
satisfied with claiming the globe and all its appur- 
tenances to him and his heirs, asserts a property 
even in the firmament, and extends his orders to 
the milky way. The monarchs of Europe, with 
more modesty, confine their titles to earth, but make 
up by mmiber what is wanting in their sublimity. 
Such is their passion for a long Ust of these splen- 
did trifles, that I have known a German prince 
with more titles than subjects, and a Spanish no- 
bleman with more names than shirts. 

Contrary to this, "the English monarchs," says 
a writer of the last century, *' diedain to accept ol 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



393 



such titles, which tend only to increase their pride, 
without improving their glory ; they are above de- 
pending on the feeble helps of heraldry for respect, 
perfectly satisfied with the consciousness of ac- 
knowledged power." At present, however, these 
maxims are laid aside; the English monarchshave 
of late assumed new titles, and have impressed 
their coins with the names and arms of obscure 
dukedoms, petty states, and subordinate employ- 
ments. Their design in this, I make no doubt, 
was laudably to add new lustre to the British 
throne; but, in reality, paltry claims only serve to 
diminish that respect they are designed to secure. 

There is, in the honours assumed by kings, as 
in the decorations of architecture, a majestic sim- 
plicity, which best conduces to hispire our rever- 
ence and respect : numerous and trifling ornaments, 
in either, are strong indications of meanness in the 
designer, or of concealed deformity. Should, for 
instance, the emperor of China, among other titles, 
assume that of deputy mandarine of Maccau ; or 
the monarch of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, 
desire to be acknowledged as duke of Brentford, 
Lunenburg, or Lincoln; the observer revolts at 
this mixture of important and paltry claims, and 
forgets the emperor in his famiharity with the duke 
or the deputy. 

I remember a similar instance of this inverted 
ambition, in the illustrious king of Manacabo, up- 
on his first treaty with the Portuguese. Among 
the presents that were made him by the ambassa- 
dor of that nation, was a sword with a brass hilt, 
upon which he seemed to set a peculiar value. 
This he thought too great an acquisition to his 
glory to be forgotten among the number of his 
titles. He therefore gave orders, that his subjects 
should style him for the future, Talipot, the im- 
mortal Potentate of Manacabo, Messenger of the 
Morning, Enlightener of the Sun, Possessor of 
the whole Earth, and mighty Monarch of the 
brass-handled Sword. 

This method of mixing majestic and paltry 
titles, of quartering the arms of a great empire and 
an obscure province upon the same medal here, 
had its rise in the virtuous partiality of their late 
monarchs. Willing to testify an affection to their 
native country, they gave its name and ensigns a 
place upon their coins, and thus, in some measure, 
ennobled its obscurity. It was, indeed, but just, 
that a people which had given England up their 
king, should receive some honorary equivalent in 
return; but at present these motives are no more : 
England has now a monarch wholly British ; and 
it has some reason to hope for British titles upon 
British coins. 

However, were the money of England designed 
to circulate in Germany, there would be no fla- 
grant impropriety in impressing it with German 
Oaoies and arms; but, though this might have been 



so upon former occasions, I am told there is no 
danger of it for the future. As England, there- 
fore, designs to keep back its gold, I candidly think 
Lunenburg, Oldenburg, and the rest of them, may 
very well keep back their titles. 

It is a mistaken prejudice in princes to think 
that a number of loud-sounding names can give 
new claims to respect. The truly great have ever 
disdained them. When Timur the Lame had 
conquered Asia, an orator by profession came to 
compliment him upon the occasion. He began 
his harangue by styling him the most omnipotent, 
and the most glorious object of the creation. The 
emperor seemed displeased with his paltry adula- 
tion, yet still he went on, complimenting him as 
the most mighty, the most valiant, and the most 
perfect of beings. "Hold, there," my friend, cries 
the lame emperor; "hold there till I have got 
another leg." In fact, the feeble or the despotic 
alone find pleasure in multiplying these pageants 
of vanity, but strength and freedom have nobler 
aims, and often find the finest adulation in majestic 
simplicity. 

The young monarch of this country has already 
testified a proper contempt for several unmeaning 
appendages on royalty ; cooks and scullions have 
been obliged to quit their fires ; gentlemen's gentle- 
men, and the whole tribe of necessary people who 
did nothing, have been dismissed from further 
services. A youth who can thus bring back sim- 
plicity and frugality to a court will soon probably 
have a true respect for his own glory ; and, while 
he has dismissed all useless employments, may 
disdain to accept of empty or degrading titles. 
Adieu. 



LETTER CXXI. 

From the Same. 

Whenever I attempt to characterize the Eng- 
lish in general, some unforeseen difficulties constant- 
ly occur to disconcert my design ; I hesitate be- 
tween censure and praise. When I consider them 
as a reasoning philosophical people, they have my 
applause ; but when I reverse the medal, and ob- 
serve their inconstancy and irresolution, I can 
scarcely persuade myself that I am observing the 
same people. 

Yet, upon examination, this very inconsistency, 
so remarkable here, flows from no other source 
than their love of reasoning. The man who ex- 
amines a compUcated subject on every side, and 
calls in reason to his assistance, will frequently 
change ; vdll find himself distracted by opposing 
improbabilities and contending proofs; every alter- 
ation of place will diversify the prospect, will give 
some latent argument new force, and contribute to 
maintain an anarchy in the mind. 



394 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



On the contrary, they who never examine with 
their own reason, act with more simpUcity. Ig- 
norance is positive, instinct perseveres, and the 
human being moves in safety within the narrow 
circle of brutal uniformity. What is true with re- 
gard to individuals is not less so when applied to 
states. A reasoning government like this is in 
continual fluctuation, while those kingdoms where 
men are taught, not to controvert but obey, con- 
tinue always the same. In Asia, for instance, 
where the monarch's authority is supported by 
force, and acknowledged through fear, a change of 
government is entirely unknown. All the inhabi- 
tants seem to wear the same mental complexion, 
and remain contented with hereditary oppression. 
The sovereign's pleasure is the ultimate rule of 
duty; every branch of the administration is a per- 
fect epitome of the whole ; and if one tyrant is de- 
posed, another starts up in his room to govern as 
his predecessor. The English, on the contrary, 
instead of being led by power, endeavour to guide 
themselves by reason ; instead of appealing to the 
pleasure of the prince, appeal to the original rights 
of mankind. What one rank of men assert is de- 
nied by others, as the reasons on opposite sides 
happen to come home with greater or less convic- 
tion. The people of Asia are directed by prece- 
dent, which never alters : the English, by reason, 
which is ever changing its appearance. 

The disadvantages of an Asiatic government, 
acting in this manner by precedent, are evident; 
original errors are thus continued, without hopes 
of redress; and all marks of genius are levelled 
down to one standard, since no superiority of think 
ing can be allowed its exertion in mending obvious 
defects. But, to recompense those defects, their 
governments undergo no new alterations; they 
have no new evils to fear, nor no fermentations in 
the constitution that continue; the struggle for 
power is soon over, and all becomes tranquil as be- 
fore; they are habituated to subordination, and 
men are taught to form no other desires than those 
which they are allowed to satisfy. 

The disadvantages of a government acting from 
the immediate influence of reason, like that of 
England, are not less than those of the former. It 
is extremely difficult to induce a number of free 
beings to co-operate for their mutual benefit ; every 
possible advantage will necessarily be sought, and 
every attempt to procure it must be attended with 
a new fermentation ; various reasons will lead dif- 
ferent ways, and equity and advantage will often 
be out -balanced by a combination of clamour and 
prejudice. But though such a people may be thus 
in the wrong, they have been influenced by a hap- 
py delusion ; their errors are seldom seen till they 
are felt ; each man is himself the tyrant he has 
obeyed, and such a master he can easily forgive. 
The disadvantages he feels may, in reality, be 



equal to what is felt in the most despotic govern- 
ment ; but man will bear every calamity with pa- 
tience when he knows himself to be the author of 
his own misfortunes. Adieu. 



LETTER CXXII. 



From the Same. 



My long residence here begins to fatigue me. 
As every object ceases to be new, it no longer con- 
tinues to be pleasing ; some minds are so fond of 
variety, that pleasure itself, if permanent, would 
be insupportable, and we are thus obliged to solicit 
new happiness even by courting distress. I only, 
therefore, wait the arrival of my son to vary this 
trifling scene, and borrow new pleasure from 
danger and fatigue. A Ufe, I ovm, thus spent in 
wandering from place to place, is at best but empty 
dissipation. But to pursue trifles is the lot of hu- 
manity ; and whether we bustle in a pantomine, 
or strut at a coronation ; whether we shout at a 
bonfire, or harangue in a senate-house ; whatever 
object we follow, it will at last surely conduct us 
to futility and disappointment. The wise bustle 
and laugh as they walk in the pageant, but fools 
bustle and are important ; and this probably is all 
the difference between them. 

This may be an apology for the levity of my 
former correspondence ; I talked of trifles : and I 
knew that they were trifles ; to make the things of 
this life ridiculous, it is only sufficient to call them 
by their names. 

In other respects, I have omitted several striking 
circumstances in the description of this country, 
as supposing them either already known to you, 
or as not being thoroughly known to myself: but 
there is one omission for which I expect no forgive- 
ness, namely, my being totally silent upon their 
buildings, roads, rivers, and mountains. This is a 
branch of science on which all other travellers are 
so very prolix, that my deficiency will appear the 
more glaring. With what pleasure, for instance, 
do some read of a traveller in Egypt, measuring a 
fallen column with his cane, and finding it exactly 
five feet nine inches long ; of his creeping through 
the mouth of a catacomb, and coming out by a dif- 
ferent hole from that he entered ; of his stealing 
the finger of an antique statue, in spite of the jani- 
zary that watched him ; or his adding a new con- 
jecture to the hundred and fourteen conjectures 
already published, upon the names of Osiris and 
Isis ! 

Methinks I hear some of my friends in China 
demanding a similar account of London and the 
adjacent villages ; and if I remain here much long- 
er, it is probable I may gratify their curiosity. I 
intend, when run dry on other topics, to take a 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



395 



serious survey of the city wall ; to describe that 
beautiful building, the mansion-house ; I will enu- 
merate the magnificent squares in which the no- 
bility chiefly reside, and the royal palaces appointed 
for the reception of the English monarch ; nor will 
I forget the beauties of Shoe-lane, in which I my- 
self have resided since my arrival. You shall find 
me no way inferior to many of my brother -travellers 
in the arts of description. At present, however, 
as a specimen of this way of writing, I send you a 
few hasty remarks, collected in a late journey 1 
made to Kentish-Town, and this in the manner 
of modern voyagers. 

" Having heard much of Kentish-Town, I con- 
ceived a strong desire to see that celebrated place. 
I could have wished, indeed, to satisfy my curiosity 
without going thither, but that was impracticable, 
and therefore I resolved to go. Travellers have 
two methods of going to Kentish-Town ; they take 
coach, which costs ninepence, or they may go a-foot, 
which costs nothing : in my opinion, a ccach is by 
far the most eligible convenience, but I was resolved 
to go on foot, having considered with myself, that 
going in that manner would be the cheapest way. 

" As you set out from Dog-house bar, you enter 
upon a tine level road railed in on both sides, com- 
manding on the right a fine prospect of groves, and 
fields, enamelled with flowers, which would won- 
derfully charm the sense of smelling, were it not 
for a dunghill on the left, which mixes its eflluvia 
with their odours. This dunghill is of much greater 
antiquity than the road ; and I must not omit a 
piece of injustice I was going to commit upon this 
occasion. My indignation was levelled against the 
makers of the dunghill, for having brought it so 
near the road ; whereas it should have fallen upon 
the makers of the road, for having brought that so 
near the dunghill. 

" After proceeding in this manner for some time, 
a building, resembling somewhat a triumphal arch, 
salutes the traveller's view. This structure, how- 
ever, is peculiar to this country, and vulgarly called 
a turnpike-gate : I could perceive a long inscription 
in large characters on the front, probably upon the 
occasion of some triumph, but, being in haste, I left 
it to be made out by some subsequent adventurer 
who may happen to travel this way; so, continuing 
•my course to the west, I soon arrived at an un- 
walled town, called IsUngton. 

■" Ishngton is a pretty neat town, mostly built 
of brick, with a church and bells ; it has a small 
lake, or rather pond, in the midst, though at pre- 
sent very much neglected. I am told it is dry in 
summer : if this be the case, it can be no very proper 
xeceptaele for fish, of which the inhabitants them- 
selves seem sensible, by bringing all that is eaten 
there from London. 

" After having surveyed the curiosities of this 
fair and beautiful town, I proceeded forward, leav- 



ing a fair stone building, called the White Conduit 
House, on my right. Here the inhabitants of Lon 
don often assemble to celebrate a feast of hot rolls 
and butter ; seeing such numbers, each with their 
little tables before them, employed on this occasion, 
must, no doubt, be a very amusing sight to the 
looker-on, but still more so to those who perform 
in the solemnity. 

" From hence I parted with reluctance to Pan- 
eras, as it is written, or Pancridge as it is pro- 
nounced: but which should be both pronounced 
and written Pangrace : this emendation I will ven- 
ture Tneo arbitrio : Uav, in the Greek language, 
signifies all, which, added to the English word, 
grace, maketh all grace, or Pangrace; and, in- 
deed, this is a very proper appellation to a place of 
so much sanctity as Pangrace is universally es- 
teemed. However this be, if you except the parish 
church and its fine bells, there is little in Pangrace 
worth the attention of the curious observer. 

" From Pangrace to Kentish-Town is an easy 
journey of one mile and a quarter : the road lies 
through a fine champaign country, well watered 
with beautiful drains, and enamelled with flowers 
of all kinds, which might contribute to charm 
every sense, were it not that the odoriferous gales 
are often more impregnated with dust than per- 
fume. 

"As you enter Kentish-Town, the eye is at 
once presented with the shops of artificers, such as 
venders of candles, small-coal, and hair-brooms; 
there are also several august buildings of red brick, 
with numberless sign-posts, or rather pillars, in a 
pecuUar order of architecture. 1 send you a draw- 
ing of several, vide ABC. This pretty town 
probably borrows its name from its vicinity to the 
county of Kent ; and indeed it is not unnatural 
that it should, as there are only London and the 
adjacent villages that lie between them. Be this 
as it will, perceiving night approach, I made a 
hasty repast on roasted mutton, and a certain dried 
fruit called potatoes, resolving to protract my re- 
marks upon my return : and this I would very will- 
ingly have done, but was prevented by a circum- 
stance which in truth I had for some time foreseen, 
for night coming on, it was impossible to take a 
proper survey of the country, as I was obliged to 
return home in the dark." Adieu. 



LETTER CXXIII. 

From the Same. 

After a variety of disappointments, my wishes 
are at length fully satisfied. My son, so long ex- 
pected, is arrived ; at once by his presence banish- 
ing my anxiety, and opening a new scene of un- 
expected pleasure. His improvements in mind 



396 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS 



and person have far surpassed even the sanguine 
expectations of a father. I left him a boy, but he 
is returned a man: pleasing in his person, harden- 
ed by travel, and polished by adversity. His disap- 
pointment in love, however, had infuged an air of 
melancholy into his conversation, which seemed at 
intervals to interrupt our mutual satisfaction. I 
expected that this could find a cure only from tune; 
but fortune, as if willing to load us with her fa- 
vours, has in a moment repaid every uneasiness 
with rapture. 

Two days after his arrival, the man in black, 
with his beautiful niece, came to congratulate us 
upon this pleasing occasion ; but, guess our sur- 
prise, when my friend's lovely kinswoman was 
found to be the very captive my son had rescued 
from Persia, and who had been wrecked on the 
Wolga, and was carried by the Russian peasants to 
the port of Archangel. Were I to hold the pen of a 
novelist, I might be prolix in describing their feelings 
at so unexpected an interview; but you may con- 
ceive their joy without my assistance : words were 
unable to express their transports, then how can 
words describe it 7 

When two young persons are sincerely ena- 
moured of each other, nothing can give me such 
pleasure as seeing them married: whether I know 
the parties or not, I am happy at thus binding one 
link more in the universal chain. Nature has, in 
some measure, formed me for a match-maker, and 
given me a soul to sympathize with every mode 
of human felicity. I instantly, therefore, con- 
sulted the man in black, whether we might not 
crown their mutual wishes by marriage : his soul 
seems formed of similar materials with mine; 
he instantly gave his consent, and the next day 
was appointed for the solemnization of their nup- 
tials. 

All the acquaintances which I had made smce 
my arrival were present at this gay solemnity. 
The Uttle beau was constituted master of the cere- 
monies, and his wife, Mrs. Tibbs, conducted the 
entertdnment with proper decorum. The man in 
black, and the pawnbroker's widow, were very 
sprightly and tender upon this occasion. The 
widow was dressed up under the direction of Mrs. 
Tibbs ; and as for her lover, his face was set oif 
by the assistance of a pig-tail wig, which was lent 
by the little beau, to fit him for making love with 
proper formahty. The whole company easily per- 
ceived that it would be a double wedding before all 
was over, and, indeed, my friend and the widow 
s^med to make no secret of their passion ; he even 
called me aside, in order to know my candid opin- 
ion, whether I did not think him a little too old to 
be married? "As for my own part," continued 
he, "I know I am going to play the fool, but 



all my friends will praise my wisdom, and pro- 
duce me as the very pattern of discretion to 
others." 

At dinner, every thing seemed to run on with 
good-humour, harmony, and satisfaction. Every 
creature in company thought themselves pretty, 
and every jest was laughed at. The man in black 
sat next his mistress, helped her plate, chimed her 
glass, and jogging her knees and her elbow, he 
whispered something arch in her ear, on which she 
patted his cheek : never was antiquated passion so 
playful, so harmless, and amusing, as between this 
reverend couple. 

The second course was now called for, and, 
among a variety of other dishes, a fine turkey was 
placed before the widow. The Europeans, you 
know, carve as they eat; my friend, therefore, 
begged his mistress to help him to a part of the 
turkey. The widow, pleased with an opportunity 
of showing her skill in carving (an art upon which 
it seems she piqued herself), began to cut it up by 
first taking off the leg. "Madam," cries my 
friend, " if I might be permitted to advise, I would 
begin by cutting off the wing, and then the leg 
will come off more easily." — " Sir," replies the 
widow, " give me leave to understand cutting up a 
fowl; I always begin with the leg." — "Yes, mad- 
am," replies the lover, "but if the wing be the 
most convenient manner, I would begin with the 
wing." — " Sir," interrupts the lady, " when you 
have fowls of your own, begin with the wing if 
you please, but give me leave to take off the leg ; 
I hope I am not to be taught at this time of day." 
— " Madam," interrupts he, "we are never too old 
to be instructed." — " Old, sir!" interrupts the other, 
"who is old, sir? when Idle of age, I know of 
some that will quake for fear : if the leg does not 
come off, take the turkey to yourself." — "Madam," 
repUed the man in black, " I do not care a farthing 
whether the leg or the wing comes off; if you are 
for the leg first, why you shall have the argument, 
even though it be as I say." — " As for the matter 
of that," cries the widow, " I do not care a fig 
whether you are for the leg off or on; and, 
friend, for the future keep your distance." — 
"O," replied the other, "that is easily done; 
it is only removing to the other end of the 
table ; and so, madam, your most obedient humble 
servant." 

Thus was this courtship of an age destroyed in 
one moment; for this dialogue effectually broke off 
the match between this respectable couple, that 
had been but just concluded. The smallest acci- 
dents disappoint the most important treaties. 
However, though it in some measure inter- 
rupted the general satisfaction, it no ways les- 
sened the happiness of the youthful couple ; 



CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



397 



and, by the young lady's looks, I could per- 
ceive she was not entirely displeased with this 
interruption. 

In a few hours the whole transaction seemed en- 
tirely forgotten, and we have all since enjoyed those 
satisfactions which result from a consciousness of 
making each other happy. My son and his fair 
partner are fixed here for life : the man in black 
has given them up a small estate in the country, 
which, added to what I was able to bestow, will 



be capable of supplying all the real, but not the 
fictitious, demands of happiness. As for myself, 
the world being but one city to me, I do not much 
care in which of the streets I happen to reside : 1 
shall, therefore, spend the remainder of my Ufe in 
examining the manners of different countries, and 
have prevailed upon the man in black to be my 
companion. "They must often change," says 
Confucius, " who would be constant in happiness 
or wisdom." Adieu. 



THE 



Mwm ®w f ]i2®iii^s jp^sBsaiLaB ©e m 



ARCHDEACON OF CLOGHER. 



[printed in 1770.] 



The life of a scholar seldom abounds with ad- 
venture. His fame is acquired in solitude. And 
the historian, who only views him at a distance, 
must be content with a dry detail of actions by 
which he is scarcely distinguished from the rest of 
mankind. But we are fond of talking of those 
who have given us pleasure, not that we have any 
thing important to say, but because the subject is 
pleasing. 

Thomas Parnell, D. D. was descended from 
an ancient family, that had for some centuries been 
settled at Congleton in Cheshire. His father, 
Thomas Parnell, who had been attached to the 
commonwealth party, upon the Restoration went 
over to Ireland ; thither he carried a large person- 
al fortune, which he laid out in lands in that king- 
dom. The estates he purchased there, as also that 
of which he was possessed in Cheshire, descended 
to our poet who was his eldest son, and still re- 
main in the family. Thus want, which has com- 
pelled many of our greatest men into the service of 
the muses, had no influence upon Parnell ; he was 
a poet by inclination. 

He was born in Dublin, in the year 1679, and 
received the first rudiments of his education at the 
school of Doctor Jones in that city. Surprising 
things are told us of the greatness of his memory 
at that early period ; as his being able to repeat by 
heart forty lines of any book at the first reading ; of 
his getting the third book of the Iliad in one night's 
time, which Was given in order to confine him for 
some days. These stories, which are told of almost 
every celebrated wit, may perhaps be true. But for 
my own part, I never found any of those prodigies of 
parts, although I have known enow, that were de 
sirous, among the ignorant, of being thought so. 

There is one presumption, however, of the early 
maturity of his understanding. He was admitted 
a member of the college of Dublin at the age of tliir 



teen, which is much sooner than usual, as at that 
university they are a great deal stricter in their ex- 
amination for entrance, than either at Oxford or 
Cambridge. His progress through the college 
course of study was probably marked with but little 
splendour; his imagination might have been too 
warm to relish the cold logic of Burgersdicins, or 
the dreary subtleties of Smiglesius ; but it is cer- 
tain, that as a classical scholar few could equal him. 
His own compositions showthis; and the deference 
which the most eminent men of his time paid 
him upon that head, put it beyond a doubt. He 
took the degree of master of arts the ninth of Ju- 
ly, 1700 ; and in the same year he was ordained 
a deacon, by William bishop of Derry, having a 
dispensation from the primate, as being under 
twenty-three years of age. Pie was admitted into 
priest's orders about three years after, by William 
archbishop of Dublin; and on the ninth of Febru- 
ary, 1705, he was collated by Sir George Ashe, 
bishop of Clogher, to the archdeaconry of Clogher. 
About that time also he married Miss Anne 
Minchin, a young lady of great merit and beauty, 
by whom he had two sons, who died young, and 
one daughter who is still living. His wife died some 
time before him ; and her death is said to have 
made so great an impression on his spirits, that it 
served to hasten his own. On the thirty-first of 
May, 1716, he was presented, by his friend and 
patron Archbishop King, to the vicarage of Fin- 
glass, a benefice worth about four hundred pounds- 
a-year in the diocese of Dublin, but he lived to en- 
joy his preferment a very short time. He died at 
Chester, in July, 1717, on his way to Ireland, and 
was buried in Trinity church in that town, with- 
out any monument to mark the place of his inter- 
ment. As he died without male issue, his estate 
devolved to his only nephew. Sir John Parnell, 
baronet, whose father was younger brother to the 



LIFE OP DR. PARNELL. 



399 



archdeacon, and one of the justices of the King's 
bench in Ireland. 

Such is the very unpoetical detail of the Hfe of a 
poet. Some dates, and some few facts scarcely 
more interesting than those that make the orna- 
ments of a country tombstone, are all that remain 
of one, whose labours now begin to excite univer- 
sal curiosity. A poet, while living, is seldom an 
object sufficiently great to attract much attention ; 
his real merits are known but to a few, and these 
are generally sparing in their praises. When his 
fame is increased by time, it is then too late to in- 
vestigate the peculiarities of his disposition; the 
dews of the morning are past, and we vainly try 
to continue the chase by the meridian splendour. 

There is scarcely any man but might be made 
the subject of a very interesting and amusing his- 
tory, if the writer, besides a thorough acquaintance 
with the character he draws, were able to make 
those nice distinctions which separate it from all 
others. The strongest minds have usually the 
most striking peculiarities, and would consequently 
afford the richest materials : but in the present in- 
stance, from not knowing Dr. Parnell, his peculi- 
arities are gone to the grave with him ; and we are 
obliged to take his character from such as knew 
but little of him, or who, perhaps, could have given 
very httle information if they had known more. 

Pai-nell, by what I have been able to collect from 
my father and uncle, who knew him, was the most 
capable man m the world to make the happiness 
of those he conversed with, and the least able to 
secure his own. He wanted that evenness of dis- 
position which bears disappointment with phlegm, 
and joy with indifference. He was ever very much 
elated or depressed ; and his whole hfe spent in 
agony or rapture. But the turbulence of these 
passions only affected himself, and never those 
about him : he knew the ridicule of his own charac- 
ter, and very effectually raised the mirth of his 
companions, as well at his vexations as at his 
triumphs. 

How much his company was desired, appears 
from the extensiveness of his connexions, and the 
number of his friends. Even before he made any 
figure in the Uterary world, liis friendship was 
sought by persons of every rank and party. The 
wits at that time differed a good deal from those 
who are most eminent for their understanding at 
present. It would now be thought a very indif- 
ferent sign of a writer's good sense, to disclaim his 
private friends for happening to be of a different 
party in politics ; but it was then otherwise, the 
■whig wits held the tory wits Ln great contempt, 
and these retaliated in their turn. At the head of 
one party were Addison, Steele, and Congreve ; at 
that of the other. Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot. 
Parnell was a friend to both sides, and with a 
hberahty becoiuing a scholar, scorned all those 



trifling distinctions, that are noisy for the time, and 
ridiculous to posterity. Nor did he emancipate 
himself from these without some opposition from 
home. Having been the son of a commonwealth's 
man, his tory connexions on this side of the water 
gave his friends in Ireland great offence : they were 
much enraged to see him keep company with Pope, 
and Swift, and Gay; they blamed his midistin- 
guishing taste, and wondered what pleasure he 
could find in the conversation of men who ap- 
proved the treaty of Utrecht, and disliked the Duke 
of Marlborough. His conversation is said to have 
been extremely pleasing, but in what its pecuUar 
excellence consisted is now unknown. The let- 
ters which were written to him by his friends, are 
full of compliments upon his talents as a com- 
panion, and his good-nature as a man. I have 
several of them now before me. Pope was parti- 
cularly fond of his company, and seems to regret 
his absence more than any of the rest. 
A letter from him follows thus : 

"London, July 29. 
"Dear Sir, 

"I wish it were not as imgenerous as vain to 
complain too much of a man that forgets me, but I 
could expostulate with you a whole day upon yoiir 
inhuman silence : I call it inhuman ; nor would yon 
think it less, if you were truly sensible of the mv 
easiness it gives me. Did I know you so ill as to 
think you proud, I would be much less concerned 
than I am able to be, when I know one of the best- 
natured men alive neglects me ; and if you know 
me so ill as to think amiss of me, with regard to 
my friendship for you, you really do jiot deserve 
half the trouble you occasion me. I need not tell 
3'ou, that both Mr. Gay and myself have written 
several letters in vain ; and that we were constant- 
ly inquiring, of all who have seen Ireland, if they 
saw you, and that (forgotten as we are) we are 
every day remembering you in our most agreeable 
hours. All this is true ; as that we are sincerely 
lovers of you, and deplorers of your absence, and 
that we form no wish more ardently than that 
which brings you over to us, and places you in 
your old seat between us. "We have lately had 
some distant hopes of the Dean's design to revisit 
England ; will you not accompany him? or is Eng- 
land to lose every thing that has any charms for us, 
and must we pray for banishment as a benediction? 
— I have once been witness of some, I hope all of 
your splenetic hours : come, and be a comforter in 
your turn to me, in mine. I am in such an un- 
settled state, that I can't tell if I shall ever see you, 
unless it be this year : whether I do or not, be ever 
assured, you have as large a share of my thoughts 
and good wishes as any man, and as great a por- 
tion of gratitude in my heart as would enrich a 
monarch, could he know where to find it. I shall 



400 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



not die without testifying something of this nature, 
and leaving to the world a memorial of the friend- 
ship that has been so great a pleasure and pride to 
me. It would be like writing my own epitaph, to 
acquaint you with what I have lost since I saw 
you, what I have done, what I have thought, where 
I have lived, and where I now repose in obscurity. 
My friend Jervas, the bearer of this, will inform 
you of all particulars concerning me ; and Mr. Ford 
is charged with a thousand loves, and a thousand 
complaints, and a thousand commissions to you on 
my part. They will both tax you with the neglect 
of some promises which were too agreeable to us 
all to be forgot : if you care for any of us, tell them 
so, and wrrite so to me. I can say no more, but 
that I love you, and am, in spite of the longest ne- 
glect of happiness, 

" Dear Sir, your most faithful 

" and affectionate friend, and servant, 
"A. Pope. 

" Gay is in Devonshire, and from thence he goes 
to Bath. My father and mother never fail to com- 
memorate you." 

Among the number of his most intimate friends 
was Lord Oxford, whom Pope has so finely com- 
plimented upon the delicacy of his choice. 

For him thou oft hast bid the world attend, 
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend ; 
For Swift and him despised the farce of state, 
The sober follies of the wise and great ; 
Dext'rous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, 
And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit. 

Pope himself was not only excessively fond of 
his company, but under several literary obligations 
to him for his assistance in the translation of Ho- 
mer. Gay was obUged to him upon another ac- 
count; for, being always poor, he was not above 
receiving from Parnell the copy-money which the 
latter got for his writings. Several of their letters, 
now before me, are proofs of this ; and as they have 
never appeared before, it is probable the reader will 
be much better pleased with their idle effusions, 
than with any thing I can hammer out for his 
amusement. 

" Binfield, near Oakingham, Tuesday. 
"Dear Sir, 

" I believe the hurry you were in hindered your 
giving me a word by the last post, so that I am yet 
to learn whether you got well to town, or continue 
BO there 1 I very much fear both for your health 
and your quiet ; and no man living can be more 
truly concerned in any thing that touches either 
than myself. I would comfort myself, however, 
with hoping, that your business may not be un- 
successful, for your sake ; and that at least it may 
soon be put into other proper hands. For my own 



I beg earnestly of you to return to us as soon as 
possible. You know how very much I want you ; 
and that, however your business may depend upon 
any other, my business depends entirely upon you; 
and yet still I hope you will find your man, even 
though I lose you the mean while. At this time, 
the more I love you, the more I can spare you; 
which alone will, I dare say, be a reason to you to 
let me have you back the sooner. The minute I 
lost you, Eustathius with nine hundred pages, and 
nine thousand contractions of the Greek charac- 
ters, arose to view ! Spondanus, with all his aux- 
iliaries, in number a thousand pages (value three 
shillings) and Dacier's three volumes, Barnes's 
two, Valterie's three, Cuperus, half in Greek, Leo 
AUatus, three parts in Greek, Scaliger, Maerobius, 
and (worse than them all) Aulus Gellius! All 
these rushed upon my soul at once, and whelmed 
me under a fit of the headach. I cursed them re- 
ligiously, damned my best friends among the restj 
and even blasphemed Homer himself Dear sir, 
not only as you are a friend, and a good-natured 
man, but as you are a Christian and a divine, come 
back speedily, and prevent the increase of my sins; 
for, at the rate I have begun to rave, I shall not 
only damn all the poets and commentators who 
have gone before me, but be damn'd myself by all 
who come after me. To be serious ; you have not 
only left me to the last degree impatient for your 
return, who at all times should have been so 
(though never so much as since I knew you in best 
health here,) but you have wrought several mira- 
cles upon our famUy; you have made old people 
fond of a young and gay person, and inveterate 
papists of a clergyman of the Church of England; 
even Nurse herself is in danger of being in love in 
her old age, and (for all I know) would even mar- 
ry Dennis for your sake, because he is your man, 
and loves his master. In short, come down forth- 
with, or give me good reasons for delaying, though 
but for a day or two, by the next post. If I find 
them just, I will come up to you, though you 
know how precious my time is at present; my 
hours were never worth so much money before; 
but perhaps you are not sensible of this, who give 
away your own works. You are a generous au- 
thor; I a hackney scribbler; you a Grecian, and 
bred at a university; I a poor Englishman, of my 
own educating : you a reverend parson, I a wag : 
in short, you are Dr. Parnelle (with an e at the 
end of your name,) and I 

" Your most obliged and affectionate 
" Friend and faithful servant, 
" A. Pope. 

" My hearty service to the Dean, Dr. Arbuth- 
not, Mr. Ford, and the true genuine shepherd, 
J. Gay of Devon. I expect him down with 
you." 



LIFE OF DR. PARNELL. 



401 



We may easily perceive by this, that Parnell 
was not a little necessary to Pope in conducting 
his translation ; however, he has worded it so am- 
biguously, that it is impossible to bring the charge 
directly against him. But he is much more expli- 
cit when he mentions his friend Gay's obligations 
in another letter, which he takes no pains to con- 
ceal. 

"DEARSfR, 

" I write to you with the same warmth, the same 
zeal of good- will and friendship, with which I used 
to converse with you two years ago, and can't 
think myself absent, when I feel you so much at my 
heart. The picture of you which Jervas brought 
me over, is infinitely less lively a representation 
than that I carry about with me, and which rises 
to my mind whenever I think of you. I have 
many an agreeable reverie through those woods 
and downs where we once rambled together ; my 
head is sometimes at the Bath, and sometimes at 
Letcomb, where the Dean makes a great part of 
my imaginary entertainment, this being the cheap- 
est way of treating me ; I hope he will not be dis- 
pleased at this manner of paying my respects to 
him, instead of following my friend Jervas's exam 
pie, which, to say the truth, I have as much inch 
nation to do as I want ability. I have been ever 
since December last in greater variety of business 
than any such men as you (that is, divines and 
philosophers) can possibly imagine a reasonable 
creature capable of. Gay's play, among the rest, 
has cost much time and long-suffering, to stem a 
tide of malice and party, that certain authors have 
raised against it ; the best revenge upon such fel- 
lows is now in my hands, I mean your Zoilus, 
which really transcends the expectation 1 had con- 
ceived of it. I have put it into the press, begin- 
ning with the poem Batrachom ; for you seem, by 
the first paragraph of the dedication to it, to design 
to prefix the name of some particular person. I 
beg therefore to know for whom you intend it, that 
the publication may not be delayed on this account, 
and this as soon as is possible. Inform me also 
upon what terms [ am to deal with the bookseller, 
and whether you design the copy-money for Gay, 
as you formerly talked ; what number of books you 
would have yourself, etc. I scarce see any thing 
to be altered in this whole piece ; in the poems you 
sent I vill take the liberty you allow me : the story 
of Pandora, and the Eclogue upon Health, are two 
of the moot beautiful things I ever read. I do not 
say this to the prejudice of the rest, but as I have 
read these oftener. Let me know how far my 
commission is to extend, and be confident of my 
punctual performance of whatever you enjoin. I 
must add a paragraph on this occasion in regard to 
Mr. Ward, whose verses have been a great plea- 
sure to me ; I will contrive they shall be so to the 
26 



world, whenever I can find a proper opportunity 
of publishing them. 

" I shall very soon print an entire collection of 
my own madrigals, which I look upon as making 
my last will and testament, since in it I shall give 
all I ever intend to give (which I'll beg your's and 
the Dean's acceptance of). You must look on 
me no more a poet, but a plain commoner, who 
lives upon his own, and fears and flatters no man. 
I hope before I die to discharge the debt I owe to 
Homer, and get upon the whole just fame enough 
to serve for an annuity for my own time, though I 
leave nothing to posterity. 

"I beg our correspondence may be more fre- 
quent than it has been of late. I am sure my es- 
teem and love for you never more deserved it from 
you, or more prompted it from you. I desired our 
friend Jervas (in the greatest hurry of my busi- 
ness) to say a great deal in my name, both to your- 
self and the Dean, and must once more repeat the 
assurances to you both, of an unchanging friend- 
ship and unalterable esteem. 
I am. Dear Sir, 
"Most entirely, your affectionate, 

" Faithful, obhged friend and servant, 
" A. Pope." 

From these letters to Parnell, we may conclude, 
as far as their testimony can go, that he was an 
agreeable, a generous, and a sincere man. Indeed, 
he took care that his friends should always see him 
to the best advantage ; for, when he found his fits 
of spleen and uneasiness, which sometimes lasted 
for weeks together, returning, he returned with all 
expedition to the remote parts of Ireland, and. 
there made out a gloomy kind of satisfaction, in 
giving hideous descriptions of the solitude to which 
he retired. It is said of a famous painter, that, 
being confined in prison for debt, his whole de- 
light consisted in drawing the faces of his credi- 
tors in caricatura. It was just so with Parnell, 
From many of his unpublished pieces which I 
have seen, and from others that have appeared, it 
would seem, that scarcely a bog in his neighbour- 
hood was left without reproach, and scarcely a 
mountain reared its head unsung. " I can easily," 
says Pope, in one of his letters, in answer to a 
dreary description of Parnell's, " I can easily image 
to my thoughts the solitary hours of your eremiti- 
cal life in the mountains, from some parallel to it 
in my own retirement at Binfield:" and in another 
place, " We are both miserably enough situated, 
God knows ; but of the two evils, I think the soli- 
tudes of the South are to be preferred to the deserts 
of the West." In this manner Pope answered 
him in the tone of his own complaints ; and these 
descriptions of the imagined distress of his situa- 
tion served to give him a temporary relief; they 
threw off the blame from himself, and laid upon 



403 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



fortune and accident a wretchedness of his own 
creating. 

But though this method of quarrelling in his 
poems with his situation, served to relieve himself, 
yet it was not easily endured by the gentlemen of 
the neighbourhood, who did not care to confess 
themselves his fellow-sufferers. He received many 
mortifications upon that account among them ; for, 
being naturally fond of company, he could not en- 
dure to be without even theirs, which, however, 
among his English friends, he pretended to despise. 
In fact, his conduct, in this particular, was rather 
splenetic than wise : he had either lost the art to 
engage, or did not employ his skill in securing 
those more permanent, though more humble con- 
nexions, and sacrificed, for a month or two in 
England, a whole year's happiness by his country 
fire-side at home. 

However, what he permitted the world to see 
of his life was elegant and splendid ; his fortune 
(for a poet) was very considerable, and it may 
easily be supposed he lived to the very extent of 
it. The fact is, his expenses were greater than 
his income, and his successor found the estate 
somewhat impaired at his decease. As soon as 
ever he had collected in his annual revenues, he 
immediately set out for England, to enjoy the com- 
pany of his dearest friends, and laugh at the more 
prudent world that were minding business and 
gaining money. The friends to whom, during 
the latter part of his life, he was chiefly attached, 
were Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Jervas, and Gay. 
Among these he was particularly happy, his mind 
was entirely at ease, and gave a loose to every harm- 
less folly that came uppermost. Indeed, it was a 
society in which, of all others, a wise man might 
be most foolish, without incurring any danger or 
contempt. Perhaps the reader will be pleased to 
see a letter to him from a part of this junto, as 
there is something striking even in the levities of 
genius. It comes from Gay, Jervas, Arbuthnot, 
and Pope, assembled at a chop-house near the Ex- 
change, and is as follows : 

"My Dear Sir, 

" I was last summer in Devonshire, and am this 
winter at Mrs. Bonyer's. In the summer I wrote 
a poem, and in the winter I have pubUshed it, 
which I have sent to you by Dr. Elwood. In the 
summer I ate two dishes of toad-stools of my own 
gathering, instead of mushrooms ; and in the win- 
ter I have been sick with wine, as 1 am at this time, 
blessed be God for it ! as I must bless God for all 
things. In the summer I spoke truth to damsels, 
in the winter I told lies to ladies. Now you know 
where I have been, and what I have done, I shall 
tell you what I intend to do the ensuing summer ; 
I propose to do the same thing I did last, which 
was to meet you in any part of England you would 



appoint ; don't let me have two disappointments. 
I have longed to hear from you, and to that intent 
I teased you with three or four letters : but, having 
no answer, I feared both yours and my letters 
might have miscarried. I hope my performance 
will please the Dean, whom I often wished for, and 
to whom I would have often wrote, but for the 
same reasons I neglected writing to you. I hope 
I need not tell you how I love you, and how 
glad I shall be to hear from you : which, next to 
the seeing you, would be the greatest satisfaction 
to your most affectionate friend and humble ser- 
vant, . « J. G." 

" Dear Mr. Archdeacon, 

" Though my proportion of this epistle should 
be but a sketch in miniature, yet I take up this 
half page, having paid my club with the good com- 
pany both for our dinner of chops and for this pa- 
per. The poets will give you lively descriptions 
in their way; I shall only acquaint you with that 
which is directly my province. I have just set the 
last hand to a couplet, for so I may call two nymphs 
in one piece. They are Pope's favourites, and 
though few, you will guess must have cost me more 
pains than any nymphs can be worth. He has 
been so unreasonable as to expect that I should 
have made them as beautiful upon canvass as he 

has done upon paper. If this same -Mr. P 

should omit to write for the dear frogs, and the 
Pervigilium, I must entreat you not to let me lan- 
guish for them, as I have done ever since they 
crossed the seas : remember by what neglects, etc. 
we missed them when we lost you, and therefore 
I have not yet forgiven any of those triflers that let 
them escape and run those hazards. I am going 
on the old rate, and want you and the Dean pro- 
digiously, and am in hopes of making you a visit 
this summer, and of hearing from you both, now 
you jure together. Fortescue, I am sure, will be 
concerned that he is not in Cornhill, to set his hand 
to these presents, not only as a witness, but as a 
" Serviteur tres humble, 
" C. Jervas." 

" It is so great an honour to a poor Scotchman 
to be remembered at this time of day, especially by 
an inhabitant of the Glacialis leme, that I take it 
very thankfully, and have, with my good friends, 
remembered you at our table in the chop-house in 
Exchange-alley. There wanted nothing to com- 
plete our happiness but your company, and our 
dear friend the Dean's. I am sure the whole en- 
tertainment would have been to his relish. Gay 
has got so much money by his Art of Walking the 
Streets, that he is ready to set up his equipage; he 
is just going to the Bank to negociate some ex- 
change-bills. Mr. Pope delays his second volume 
of his Homer till the martial spirit of the rebels is 



LIFE OP DR. PARNELL. 



403 



ijuite quelled, it being judged that the first part did 
some harm that way. Our love again and again 
to the dear Dean. Fuimus torys, I can say no 
more. Arbuthnot." 

" When a man is conscious that he does no good 
himself, the next thing is to cause others to do 
some. I may claim some merit this way, in hasten- 
ing this testimonial from your friends above writ- 
ing : their love to you indeed wants no spur, their 
ink wants no pen, their pen wants no hand, their 
hand wants no heart, and so forth (after the man- 
ner of Rabelais; which is betwixt some meaning 
and no meaning) ; and yet it may be said, when 
present thought and opportunity is wanting, their 
pens want ink, their hands want pens, their hearts 
want hands, etc. till time, place, and conveniency, 
concur to set them writing, as at present, a sociable 
meeting, a good dinner, warm fire, and an easy 
situation do, to the joint labour and pleasure of this 
epistle^ 

" Wherein if I should say nothing I should say 
much (much being included in my love), though 
my love be such, that, if I should say much, I 
should yet say nothing, it being (as Cowley says) 
equally impossible either to conceal or to express it. 

" If I were to tell you the thing I wish above all 
things, it is to see you again ; the next is to see 
here your treatise of Zoilus, with Batrachomuoma- 
chia, and the Pervigilium Veneris, both which 
poems are masterpieces in several kinds; and I 
question not the prose is as excellent in its sort as 
the Essay on Homer. Nothing can be more glo- 
rioas to that great author than that the same hand 
that raised his best statue, and decked it with its 
old laurels, shoidd also hang up the scarecrow of 
his miserable critic, and gibbet up the carcass of 
Zoilus, to the terror of the witlings of posterity. 
More, and much more, upon this and a thousand 
other subjects, wLU be the matter of my next letter, 
wherein I must open all the friend to you. At 
this time I must be content with telling you, I am 
faithfully your most affectionate and humble ser- 
vant, " A. Pope." 

If we regard this letter with a critical eye, we 
must find it indifferent enough ; if we consider it 
as a mere effusion of friendship, in which every 
writer contended in affection, it will appear much 
to the honour of those who wrote it. To be mind- 
ful of an absent friend in the hours of mirth and 
feasting, when his company is least wanted, shows 
no slight degree of sincerity. Yet probably there 
was still another motive for writing thus to him in 
conjunction. The above named, together with 
Swift and Parnell, had some time before formed 
themselves into a society, called the Scribblerus 
Club, and I should suppose they commemorated 
him thus, as being an absent member. 



It is past a doubt that they wrote many things 
in conjunction, and Gay usually held the pen. 
And yet I do not remember any productions which 
were the joint efibrt of this society, as doing it hon- 
our. There is something feeble and quaint in all 
their attempts, as if company repressed thought, 
and genius wanted solitude for its boldest and hap- 
piest exertions. Of those productions in which 
Parnell had a principal share, that of the Origin 
of the Sciences from the Monkeys in Ethiopia, is 
particularly mentioned by Pope himself, in some 
manuscript anecdotes which he left behind him. 
The Life of Homer also, prefixed to the translation 
of the Iliad, is written by Parnell and corrected by 
Pope ; and, as that great poet assures us in the same 
place, this correction was not effected without great 
labour. "It is still stiff," says he, "and was writ- 
ten still stiJBfer ; as it is, I verily think it cost me 
more pains in the correcting, than the writing it 
would have done." All this may he easily credit- 
ed ; for every thing of Parnell's that has appeared 
in prose, is written in a very awkward inelegant 
manner. It is true, his productions teem with im- 
agination, and show great learning, but they want 
that ease and sweetness for which his poetry is so 
much admired ; and the language is also shame- 
fully incorrect. Yet, though all this must be al- 
lowed, Pope should have taken care not to leave 
his errors upon record against him, or put it in the 
power of envy to tax his friend with faults that do 
not appear in what he has left to the world. A 
poet has a right to expect the same secrecy in his 
friend as in his confessor ; the sins he discovers are 
not divulged for punishment but pardon. Indeed, 
Pope is almost inexcusable in this instance, as what 
he seems to condemn in one place he very much 
applauds in another. In one of the letters from 
him to Parnell, abovementioned, he treats the Life 
of Homer with much greater respect, and seems to 
say, that the prose is excellent in its kind. It must 
be confessed, however, that he is by no means in- 
consistent ; what he says in both places may very 
easily be reconciled to truth ; but who can defend 
his candour and sincerity. 

It would be hard, however, to suppose that there 
was no real friendship- between these great men. 
The benevolence of Pamell's disposition remains 
unimpeached ; and Pope, though subject to starts 
of passion and envy, yet never missed an oppor- 
tunity of being truly serviceable to him. The com- 
merce between them was carried on to the common 
interest of both. When Pope had a Miscellany to 
publish, he applied to Parnell for poetical assist- 
ance, and the latter as implicitly submitted to him 
for correction. Thus they mutually advanced each 
other's interest or fame, and grew stronger by con- 
junction. Nor was Pope the only person to whom 
Parnell had recourse for assistance. We learn 
from Swift's letters to Stella, that he submitted his 



404 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



pieces to all his friends, and readily adopted their 
alterations. Swift, among the number, was very 
useful to him in that particular ; and care has been 
taken that the world should not remain ignorant 
of the obligation. 

But in the connexion of wits, interest has gene- 
rally very little share ; they have only pleasure in 
view, and can seldom find it but among each other. 
The Scrihblerus Club, when the members were in 
town, were seldom asunder, and they often made 
excursions together into the country, and generally 
on foot. Swift was usually the butt of the compa- 
ny, and if a trick was played, he was always the 
sufferer. The whole party once agreed to walk 

down to the house of Lord B , who is still 

living, and whose seat is about twelve miles from 
town. As every one agreed to make the best of 
his way. Swift, who was remarkable for walking, 
soon left the rest behind him, fully resolved^ upon 
his arrival, to choose the very best bed for himself, 
for that was his custom. In the meantime Par- 
nell was determined to prevent his intentions, and 

taking horse, arrived at Lord B 's by another 

way, long before him. Having apprised his lord- 
ship of Swift's design, it was resolved at any rate 
to keep him out of the house ; but how to affect this 
was the question. Swift never had the small-pox, 
and was very much afraid of catching it : as soon 
therefore as he appeared striding along at some 
distance from the house, one of his lordship's ser- 
vants was dispatched to inform him, that the small- 
pox was then making great ravages in the family, 
but that there was a summer-house with a field-bed 
at his service, at the end of the garden. There the 
disappointed Dean was obliged to retire, and take 
a cold supper that was sent out to him, while the 
rest were feasting within. However, at last they 
took compassion on him ; and upon his promising 
never to choose the best bed again, they permitted 
him to make one of the company. 

There is something satisfactory in these accounts 
of the follies of the wise ; they give a natural air to 
the picture, and reconcile us to our own. There 
have been few poetical societies more talked of, or 
productive of a greater variety of whimsical con- 
ceits, than this of the Scribblerus Club, but how 
long it lasted I can not exactly determine. The 
whole of Parnell's poetical existence was not of 
more than eight or ten years' continuance ; his first 
excursions to England began about the year 1706, 
and he died in the year 1718 ; so that it is probable 
the club began with him, and his death ended the 
connexion. Indeed, the festivity of his conversa- 
tion, the benevolence of his heart, and the gene- 
rosity of his temper, were qualities that might serve 
to cement any society, and that could hardly be 
replaced when he was taken away. During the 
two or three last years of his life, he was more fond 
of company than ever, and could scarcely bear to 



be alone. The death of his wife, it is said, was a 
loss to him that he was unable to support or re- 
cover. From that time he could never venture to 
court the Muse in solitude, where he was sure to 
find the image of her who first inspired his attempts. 
He began therefore to throw himself into every 
companj^, and seek from wine, if not relief, at least 
insensibility. Those helps that sorrow first called 
for assistance, habit soon rendered necessary, and 
he died before his fortieth year, in some measure a 
martyr to conjugal fidelity. 

Thus, in the space of a very few years, Parnell 
attained a share of fame equal to what most of his 
contemporaries were a long life in acquiring. He 
is only to be considered as a poet ; and the univer 
sal esteem in which his poems are held, and the 
reiterated pleasure they give in the perusal, are a 
sufficient test of their merit. He appears to me to 
be the last of that great school that had modelled 
itself upon the ancients, and taught English poetry 
to resemble what the generality of mankind have 
allowed to excel. A studious and correct obsei-ver 
of antiquity, he set himself to consider nature with 
the lights it lent him: and he found that the more 
aid he borrowed from the one, the more delight- 
fully he resembled the other. To copy nature is a 
task the most bungling workman is able to exe- 
cute ; to select such parts as contribute to dehght, is 
reserved only for those whom accident has blessed 
with uncommon talents, or such as have read the 
ancients with indefatigable industry. Parnell is 
ever happy in the selection of his images, and scru- 
pulously careful in the choice of his subjects. His 
productions bear no resemblance to those tawdry 
things, which it has for some time been the fashion 
to admire ; in writing which the poet sits down 
without any plan, and heaps up splendid images 
without any selection ; where the reader grows 
dizzy with praise and admiration, and yet soon 
grows weary, he can scarcely tell why. Our poet, 
on the contrary, gives out his beauties with a more 
sparing hand ; he is still carrying his reader for- 
ward,and just gives him refreshment sufficient to 
support him to his journey's end. At the end of 
his course, the reader regrets that his way has been 
so short, he wonders that it gave him so little trou- 
ble, and so resolves to go the journey over again. 

His poetical language is not less correct than his 
subjects are pleasing. He found it afthat period 
in which it was brought to its highest pitch of re- 
finement : and ever since his time it has been 
gradually debasing. It is indeed amazing, after 
what has been done by Dryden, Addison, and 
Pope, to improve and harmonize our native tongue 
that their successors should have taken so much 
pains to involve it into pristine barbarity. These 
misguided innovators have not been content with 
restoring antiquated words and phrases, but have 
indulged themselves in the most licentious transpo- 



LIFE OP DR. PARNELL. 



405 



sitions, and the harshest constructions, vainly ima- 
gining, that the more their writings are unUke 
prose, the more they resemble poetry. They have 
adopted a language of their own, and call upon 
mankind for admiration. All those who do not 
understand them are silent and those who make 
out their meaning are willing to praise, to show 
they understand. From these follies and affecta- 
tions the poems of Parnell are entirely free ; he 
has considered the language of poetry as the lan- 
guage of life, and conveys the warmest thoughts in 
the simplest expression. 

Parnell has written several poems besides those 
published by Pope, and some of them have been 
made public with very little credit to his reputation. 
There are still many more that have not yet seen 
the light, in the possession of Sir John Parnell his 
nephew, who, from that laudable zeal which he has 
for his uncle's reputation, will probably be slow in 
publishing what he may even suspect will do it 
injury. Of those which are usually inserted in 
his works, some are indifferent, and some moderate- 
ly good, but the greater part are excellent. A 
slight stricture on the most striking shall conclude 
this account, which I have already drawn out to 
a disproportionate length. 

Hesiod, or the Rise of Woman, is a very fine il- 
lustration of a hint from Hesiod. It was one of his 
earliest productions, and first appeared in a miscel- 
lany published by Tonson. 

Of the three songs that follow, two of them were 
written upon the lady he afterwards married ; they 
were the genuine dictates of his passion, but are 
not excellent in their kind. 

The Anacreontic, beginning with, " When 
Spring came on with fresh delight," is taken from 
a French poet whose name I forget, and, as far as 
I am able to judge of the French language is bet- 
ter than the original. The Anacreontic that fol- 
lows " Gay Bacchus," etc., is also a translation of 
a Latin poem by Aurehus Augureilus, an Italian 
poet, beginning with, 

Invitat olim Bacchus ad ccenam suos 
Comum, Jocum, Cupidinem. 

Parnell, when he translated it, applied the cha- 
racters to some of his friends, and, as it was written 
for their entertainment, it probably gave them more 
pleasure than it has given the public in the peru- 
sal. It seems to have more spirit than the original ; 
but it is extraordinary that it was published as an 
original and not as a translation. Pope should 
have acknowledged it, as he knew. 

The fairy tale is incontestably one of the finest 
pieces in any language. The old dialect is not 
perfectly well preserved, but this is a very slight 
defect, where all the rest is so excellent. 

The Pervigihum Veneris, (which, by the by, 
does not belong to Catullus) is very well versified, 



and in general all Parnell' s translations are excel- 
lent. The Battle of the Frogs and Mice, which 
follows, is done as well as the subject would admit: 
but there is a defect in the translation which sinks 
it below the original, and which it was impossible 
to remedy; I mean the names of the combatants, 
which in the Greek bear a ridiculous allusion to 
their natures, have no force to the EngUsh reader. 
A bacon-eater was a good name for a mouse, and 
Pternotractas in Greek was a very good sounding 
word that conveyed that meaning. Puffcheek 
would sound odiously as a name for a frog, and 
yet Physignathos does admirably well in the origi- 
nal. 

The letter to Mr. Pope is one of the finest 
compliments that ever was paid to any poet; 
the description of his situation at the end of it 
is very fine, but far from being true. That 
part of it where he deplores his being far from 
wit and learning, as being far from Pope, gave 
particular offence to his friends at home. Mr. 
Coote, a gentleman in his neighbourhood, who 
thought that he himself had wit, was very much 
displeased with Parnell for cristing his eyes so far 
off for a learned friend, when he could so conve- 
niently be supplied at home. 

The translation of a part of the Rape of the 
Lock into monkish verse, serves to show what a 
master Parnell was of the Latin ; a copy of verses 
made in this manner, is one of the most difficult 
trifles that can possibly be imagined. 1 am assured 
that it was written upon the following occasion. 
Before the Rajje of the Lock was yet completed, 
Pope was reading it to his friend Swift, who sat 
very attentively, while Parnell, who happened to 
be in the house, went in and out without seeming 
to take any notice. However, he was very dili- 
gently employed in Hstening, and was able, from 
the strength of his memory, to bring away the 
whole description of the toilet pretty exactly. This 
he versified in the manner now published in his 
works; and the next day, when Pope was reading 
his poem to some friends, Parnell insisted that he 
had stolen that part of the description from an old 
monkish manuscript. An old paper with the Latin 
verses was soon brought forth, and it was not till 
after some time that Pope was delivered from the 
confusion which it at first produced. 

The Book-worm is another unacknowledged 
translation from a Latin poem by Beza. It was 
the fashion with the wits of the last age to conceal 
the places whence they took their hints or their 
subjects. A trifling acknowledgment would have 
made that lawful prize, which may now be consid- 
ered as plunder. 

The Night Piece on Death deserves every praise, 
and I should suppose, with very little amendment, 
might be made to surpass all those night pieces 
and church-yard scenes that have since appeared. 



406 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



But the poem of Parnell's best known, and on 
which his best reputation is grounded, is the Her- 
mit. Pope, speaking of this in those manuscript 
anecdotes already quoted, says " That the poem is 
very good. The story," continues he, " was writ- 
ten originally in Spanish, whence probably Howel 
had translated it into prose, and inserted it in one 
of his letters. Addison liked the scheme, and was 
not disinclined to come into it." However this 
may be. Dr. Henry Moore, in his dialogues, has 
the very same story ; and I have been informed by 
some, that it is originally of Arabian invention. 

With respect to the prose works of Parnell, I 
have mentioned them already ; his fame is too well 
grounded for any defects in them to shake it. 1 
will only add, that the Life of Zoilus was written 
at the request of his friends, and designed as a 
satire upon Dennis and Theobald, with whom his 
club had long been at variance. I shall end this 
account with a letter to him from Pope and Gay, in 
which they endeavour to hasten him to finish that 
production. 

" London, March 18. 
"Dear Sir, 

" I must own I have long owed you a letter, but 
you must own, you have owed me one a good deal 
longer. Besides, I have but two people in the 
whole kingdom of Ireland to take care of; the Dean 
and you : but you have several who complain of 
your neglect in England. Mr. Gay complains, 
Mr. Harcourt complains, Mr. Jervas complains. 
Dr. Arbuthnot complains, my Lord complains ; I 
complain. (Take notice of this figure of iteration, 
when you make your next sermon.) Some say you 
are in deep discontent at the new turn of aflkirs; 
others, that you are so much in the archbishop's 
good graces, that you will not correspond with any 
that have seen the last ministry. Some affirm you 
have quarrelled with Pope (whose friends they ob- 
serve daily fall from him on account of his satirical 
and comical disposition;) others that you are in- 
sinuating yourself into the opinion of the inge- 
nious Mr. What-do-ye-call-hvn. Some think you 
are preparing your sermons for the press; and 
others, that you will transform them into essays and 
moral discourses. But the only excuse that I will 
allow, is your attention to the Life of Zoilus. The 
frogs already seem to croak for their transportation 



to England, and are sensible how much that Doc- 
tor is cursed and hated, who introduced their spe- 
cies into your nation ; therefore, as you dread the 
wrath of St. Patrick, send them hither, and rid the 
ki ngdom of those pernicious and loquacious animals. 

' I have at length received your poem out of Mr. 
Addison's hands, which shall be sent as soon as 
you order it, and in what manner you shall appoint. 
I shall in the mean time give Mr. Tooke a packet 
for you, consisting of divers merry pieces. Mr. 
Gay's new farce, Mr. Burnet's letter to Mr. Pope, 
Mr. Pope'sTempleof Fame,Mr. ThomasBurnet's 
Grumbler on Mr. Gay, and the Bishop of Ails- 
bury's Elegy, written either by Mr. Gary or some 
other hand. 

" Mr. Pope is reading a letter; and in the mean 
time, I make use of the pen to testify my uneasi- 
ness in not hearing from you. I find success, even 
in the most trivial things, raises the indignation of 
Scribblers: for I, for my What-d'ye-call-it, could 
neither escape the fury of Mr. Burnet, or the Ger- 
man doctor ; then where will rage end, when Ho- 
mer is to be translated? Let Zoilus hasten to your 
friend's assistance, and envious criticism shall be 
no more. I am in hopes that we may order our 
affairs so as to meet this summer at the Bath ; for 
Mr. Pope and myself have thoughts of taking a 
trip thither. You shall preach, and we will write 
lampoons ; for it is esteemed as great an honour to 
leave the Bath for fear of a broken head, as for a 
Terrae FiUus of Oxford to be expelled. I have no 
place at court ; therefore, that I may not entirely 
be without one every where, show that I have a 
place in your remembrance. 

"Your most affectionate, 
"Faithful servants, 

"A. Pope and J. Gay." 

" Homer will be published in three weeks." 

I can not finish this trifle without returning my 
sincerest acknowledgments to Sir John Parnell, 
for the generous assistance he was pleased to give 
me, in furnishing me with many materials, when 
he heard I was about writing the life of his uncle, 
as also to Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, relations of our 
poet; and to my very good friend Mr. Stevens, 
who, being an ornament to letters himself, is very 
ready to assist all the attempts of others. 



THE LIFE 



^tnvvt, Hortf mntount Molin^vokt. 



[first printed in 1771.] 



There are some characters that seem formed 
by nature to take dehght in strugghng with oppo- 
sition, and whose most agreeable hours are passed 
in storms of their own creating. The subject of 
the present sketch was, perhaps, of all others, the 
most indefatigable in raising himself enemies, to 
show his power in subduing them ; and was not 
less employed in improving his superior talents 
than in finding objects on which to exercise their 
activity. His life was spent in a continual con- 
flict of politics ; and, as if that was too short for the 
combat, he has left his memory as a subject of last- 
ing contention. 

It is, indeed, no easy matter to preserve an ac- 
knowledged impartiality in talking of a man so 
differently regarded on account of his political, as 
well as his religious principles. Those whom his 
politics may please will be sure to condemn him 
for his religion ; and, on the contrar}', those most 
strongly attached to his theological opinions are 
the most likely to decry his politics. On whatever 
side he is regarded, he is sure to have opposers; 
and this was perhaps what he most desired, having, 
from nature, a mind better pleased with the struggle 
than the victory. 

Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, 
was born in the year 1673, at Battersea, in Surrey, 
at a seat that had been in the possession of his an- 
cestors for ages before. His family was of the first 
rank, equally conspicuous for its antiquity, dignity, 
and large possessions. It is found to trace its origin 
as high as Adam de Port, Baron of Basing, in 
Hampshire, before the Conquest ; and in a suc- 
cession of ages, to have produced warriors, patriots, 
and statesmen, some of whom were conspicuous 
for their loyalty, and others for their defending the 
rights of the people. His grandfather, Sir Walter 
St. John, of Battersea, marrying one of the daugh- 
ters of Lord Chief Justice St. John, who, as all 



know, was strongly attached to the republican 
party, Henry, the subject of the present memoir, 
was brought up in his family, and consequently 
imbibed the first principles of his education amongst 
the dissenters. At that time, Daniel Burgess, a 
fanatic of a very peculiar kind, being at once pos- 
sessed of zeal and humour, and as well known for 
the archness of his conceits as the furious obstina- 
cy of his principles; was confessor in the presby- 
terian way to his grandmother, and was appointed 
to direct our author's first studies. Nothing is so 
apt to disgust a feeling mind as mistaken zeal ; and, 
perhaps, the absurdity of the first lectures he re- 
ceived might have given him that contempt for all 
religions which he might have justly conceived 
against one. Indeed no task can be more morti- 
fying than what he was condemned to undergo : 
"I was obliged," says he, in one place, "while yet 
a boy, to read over the commentaries of Dr. Man- 
ton, whose pride it was to have made a hundred 
and nmeteen sennons on the hundred and nine- 
teenth psalm." Dr. Manton and his sermons were 
not liliely to prevail much on one who was, per- 
haps, the most sharp-sighted in the world at dis- 
covering the absurdities of others, however he 
might have been guilty of establishing many of 
his own. 

But these dreary institutions were of no very 
long continuance ; as soon as it was fit to take him 
out of the hands of the women, he was sent to 
Eton school, and removed thence to Christ-church 
college in Oxford. His genius and understanding 
were seen and admired in both these seminaries, 
but his love of pleasure had so much the ascenden- 
cy, that he seemed contented rather with the con- 
sciousness of his own great powers than their ex- 
ertion. However, his friends, and those who knew 
him most intimately, were thoroughly sensible of 
the extent of his mind ; and when he left tha 



408 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



university, he was considered as one who had the 
fairest opportunity of making a shining figure in 
active hfe. 

Nature seemed not less kind to him in her ex- 
ternal embellishments than in adorning his mind. 
With the graces of a handsome person, and a face 
in which dignity was happily blended with sweet- 
ness, he had a manner of address that was very 
engaging. His vivacity was always awake, his 
apprehension was quick, his wit refined, and his 
memory amazing: his sublety in thinking and 
reasoning was profound ; and all these talents 
were adorned with an elocution that was irre- 
sistible. 

To the assemblage of so many gifts from na- 
ture, it was expected that art would soon give her 
finishing hand; and that a youth, begun in excel- 
lence, would soon arrive at perfection : but such is 
the perverseness of human nature, that an age 
which should have been employed in the acquisi 
tion of knowledge, was dissipated in pleasure ; and 
instead of aiming to excel in praiseworthy pur- 
suits, Bolingbroke seemed more ambitious of being 
thought the greatest rake about town. This period 
might have been compared to that of fermentation 
in liquors, which grow muddy before they bright- 
en ; but it must also be confessed, that those liquors 
which never ferment are seldom clear.* In this 
state of disorder, he was not without his lucid in 
tervals ; and even while he was noted for keeping 
Miss Gumley, the most expensive prostitute in the 
kingdom, and bearing the greatest quantity of wine 
without intoxication, he even then despised his 
paltry ambition. " The love of study," says he, 
" and desire of knowledge, were what I felt all my 
life; and though my genius, unlike the demon of 
Socrates, whispered so softly, that very often I 
heard him not in the hurry of these passions with 
■which I was transported, yet some calmer hours 
there were, and in them I hearkened to him." 
These sacred admonitions were indeed very few, 
since his excesses are remembered to this very day. 
I have spoken to an old man, who assured me, that 
he saw him and one of his companions run naked 
through the Park in a fit of intoxication ; but then 
it was a time when public decency might be trans- 
gressed with less danger than at present. 

During this period, as all his attachments were 
to pleasure, so his studies only seemed to lean that 
•way. His first attempts were in poetry, in which 
he discovers more wit than taste, more labour than 
harmony in his versification. We have a copy of 
his verses prefixed to Dryden's Virgil, compliment- 



• Our author appears fond of this figure, for we find it in- 
troduced into his Essay on Polite Literature. The propriety, 
however, both of the simile, and of the position it endeavours 
to illustrate, is ably examined in a periodical worlf, entitled 
the Philanthrope, publislied in London in the year 1797. 



ing the poet, and praising his translation. We 
have another, not so well known, prefixed to a 
French work, published in Holland by the Che- 
valier de St. Hyacinth, entitled, Le Chef-d'-CEuvre 
dhin Inconnu. This performance is a humorous 
piece of criticism upon a miserable old ballad ; and 
Bolingbroke's compliment, though written in Eng- 
lish, is printed in Greek characters, so that at the 
firsf glance it may deceive the eye, and be mistaken 
for real Greek. There are two or three things 
more of his composition, which have appeared since 
his death, but which do honour neither to his parts 
nor memory. 

In this mad career of pleasure he continued for 
some time ; but at length, in 1700, when he ar- 
rived at the twenty-eighth year of his age, he be- 
gan to dislike his method of living, and to find that 
sensual pleasure alone was not sufficient to make 
the happiness of a reasonable creature. He there- 
fore made his first effort to break from his state of 
infatuation, by marrying the daughter and coheir- 
ess of Sir Henry Winchescomb, a descendant from 
the famous Jack of Newbury, who, though but a 
clothier in the reign of Henry Vlll., was able to 
entertain the king and all his retinue in the most 
splendid manner. This lady was possessed of a 
fortune exceeding forty thousand pounds, and was 
not deficient in mental accomplishments; but 
whether he was not yet fully satiated with his 
former pleasures, or whether her temper was not 
conformable to his own, it is certain they were far 
from living happily together. After cohabiting for 
some time together, they parted by mutual consent, 
both equally displeased ; he complaining of the ob- 
stinacy of her temper, she of the shamelessness of 
his infidelity. A great part of her fortune, some 
time after, upon his attainder, was given her back ; 
but, as her family estates were settled upon him, 
he enjoyed them after her death, upon the reversal 
of his attainder. 

Having taken a resolution to quit the allure- 
ments of pleasure for the stronger attractions of 
ambition, soon after his marriage he procured a 
seat in the House of Commons, being elected for 
the borough of Wotton-Basset, in Wiltshire, his 
father having served several times for the same 
place. Besides his natural endowments and his 
large fortune, he had other very considerable ad- 
vantages that gave him weight in the senate, and 
seconded his views of preferment. His grand- 
father. Sir Walter St. John, was still alive; and 
that gentleman's interest was so great in his own 
county of Wilts, that he represented it in two Par- 
liaments in a former reign. His father also was 
then the representative for the same ; and the in- 
terest of his wife's family in the House was very 
extensive. Thus Bolingbroke took his seat witL 
many accidental helps, but his chief and great re- 
source lay in his own extensive abilities. 



LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



409 



At that time the whig and the tory parties were 
strongly opposed in the House, and pretty nearly 
balanced. In the latter years of King William, the 
tories, who from eveiy nioiive were opposed to the 
court, had been gaining popularity, and now began 
to make a public stand against their competitors. 
Robert Harley, afterwards Earl of Oxford, a 
staunch and confirmed tory, was in the year 1700 
chosen Speaker of the House of Commons, and 
was continued in the same upon the accession of 
Glueen Anne, the year ensuing. Bolingbroke had 
all along been bred up, as was before observed, 
among the dissenters, his friends leaned to that 
persuasion, and all his connexions were in the 
whig interest. However, either from principle, or 
from perceiving the tory party to be then gaining 
ground, while the whigs were declining, he soon 
changed his connexions, and joined himself to Har- 
ley, for whom then he had the greatest esteem ; nor 
did he bring him his vote alone, but his opinion, 
which, even before the end of his first session, he 
rendered very considerable, the House perceiving 
even in so young a speaker the greatest eloquence, 
united with the profoundest discernment. The 
year following he was again chosen anew for the 
same borough, and persevered in his former at- 
tachments, by which he gained such an authority 
and influence in the House, that it was thought 
proper to reward his merit ; and, on the 10th of 
April, 1704, he was appointed Secretary at War 
and of the Marine, his friend Harley having a 
little before been made Secretary of State. 

The tory party being thus established in power, 
it may easily be supposed that every method would 
be used to depress the whig interest, and to prevent 
it from rising ; yet so much justice was done even 
to merit in an enemy, that the Duke of Marlbo- 
rough, who might be considered as at the head of 
the opposite party, was supplied with all the ne- 
cessaries for carrying on the war in Flanders with 
vigour; and it is remarkable, that the greatest 
events of his campaigns, such as the battles of 
Blerdieim and Ramilies. and several glorious at- 
tempts made by the duke to shorten the war by 
some decisive action, fell out while Bohngbroke 
was Secretary at War. In fact he was a sincere 
admirer of that great general, and avowed it upon 
all occasions to the last moment of his life ; he 
knew his faults, he admired his virtues, and had 
the boast of being instrumental in giving lustre to 
those triumjihs by which his own power was in a 
manner overthrown. 

As the affairs of the nation were then in as 
fluctuating a state as at present, Harley, after 
maintaining the lead for above three years, weis in 
his turn obliged to submit to the whigs, who once 
more became the prevailing party, and he was com- 
pelled to resign the seals. The friendship between 
him and Bohngbroke seemed at this time to have 



been sincere and disinterested ; for the latter chose 
to follow his fortune, and the next day resigned his 
employments in the administration, following his 
friend's example, and setting an example at once of 
integrity and moderation. As an instance of this, 
when his coadjutors, the tories, were for carrying 
a violent measure in the House of Commons, in 
order to bring the Princess Sophia into England, 
Bolingbroke so artfully opposed it, that it dropped 
without a debate. For this his moderation was 
praised, but perhaps at the expense of his sagacity. 

For some time the whigs seemed to have gained 
a complete triumph, and upon the election of a new 
Parliament, in the year 1708. Bolingbroke was not 
returned. The interval which followed, of above 
two years, he employed in the severest study, and 
this recluse period he ever after used to consider as 
the most active and serviceable of his whole life. 
But his retirement was soon interrupted by the 
prevailing of his party once more ; for the Whig 
Parliament being dissolved in the year 1710, he 
was again chosen, and Harley being made Chan- 
cellor, and Under -treasurer of the Exchequer, the 
important post of Secretary of State was given to 
our author, in which he discovered a degree of 
genius and assiduity that perhaps have never been 
known to be united in one person to the same 
degree. 

The English annals scarcely produce a more 
trying juncture, or that required such various abili- 
ties to regulate. He was then placed in a sphere 
where he was obliged to conduct the machine of 
state, struggling with a thousand various calami- 
ties ; a desperate enraged party, whose character- 
istic it has ever been to bear none in power but 
themselves ; a war conducted by an able general, 
his professed opponent, and whose victories only 
tended to render him every day more formidable ; 
a foreign enem}', possessed of endless resources, 
and seeming to gather strength from every defeat ; 
an insidious alliance, that wanted only to gain the 
advantage of victory, without contributing to the 
expenses of the combat ; a weak declining mistress, 
that was led by every report, and seemed ready to 
listen to whatever was said against him ; still more, 
a gloomy, indolent, and suspicious colleague, that 
envied his power, and hated him for his abilities : 
these were a part of the difliculties that Bolingbroke 
had to struggle with in office, and under which he 
was to conduct the treaty of peace of Utrecht, which 
was considered as one of the most complicated ne- 
gociations that history can afford. But nothing 
seemed too great for his abilities and industry ; he 
set himself to the undertaking with spirit ; he be- 
gan to pave the way to the intended treaty, by 
making the people discontented at the continuance 
of the war ; for this purpose he employed himself 
in drawing up accurate computations of the num- 
bers of our own men, and that of foreigners, em- 



410 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ployed in its destructive progress. He even wrote 
in the Examiner, and other periodical papers of 
the times, showing how much of theburden rested 
upon England, and how little was sustained by 
those who falsely boasted their alliance. By these 
means, and after much debate in the House of 
Commons, the Q-ueen received a petition from Par- 
liament, showing the hardships the alhes had put 
upon England in carrying on this war, and conse- 
quently how necessary it was to apply relief to so 
ill-judged a connexion. It may be easily supposed 
that the Dutch, against whom this petition was 
chiefly levelled, did all that was in their power to 
oppose it : many of the foreign courts also, with 
whom he had any transactions, were continually 
at work to defeat the minister's intentions. Me- 
morial was delivered after memorial ; the people of 
England, the Parliament, and all Europe, were 
made acquainted with the injustice and the dan- 
gers of such a proceeding ; however, Bolingbroke 
went on with steadiness and resolution, and al- 
though the attacks of his enemies at home might 
have been deemed sufficient to employ his atten- 
tion, yet he was obliged, at the same time that he 
furnished materials to the press in London, to fur- 
nish instructions to all our ministers and ambassa- 
dors abroad, who would do nothing but in pursu- 
ance of his directions. As an orator in the senate, 
he exerted all his eloquence, he stated all the great 
points that were brought before the House, he an- 
swered the objections that were made by the lead- 
ers of the opposition ; and all this with such suc- 
cess, that even his enemies, while they opposed 
his power, acknowledged his abilities. Indeed, 
such were the difficulties he had to encounter, that 
we find him acknowledging himself some years 
after, that he never looked back on this great event, 
passed as it was, without a secret emotion of mind, 
when he compared the vastness of the undertaking, 
and the importance of the success, with the means 
employed to bring it about, and with those which 
were employed to frustrate his intentions. 

While he was thus industriouslj^ employed, he 
was not without the rewards that deserved to fol- 
low such abilities, joined to so much assiduity. In 
July, 1712, he was created Baron St. John of 
Lidyard Tregoze, in Wiltshire, and Viscount Bo- 
lingbroke ; by the last of which titles he is now 
generally known, and is likely to be talked of by 
posterity ; he was also the same year appointed 
Lord Lieutenant of the county of Essex. By the 
titles of Tregoze and Bolingbroke, he united the 
honours of elder and younger branches of his fami- 
ly ; and thus transmitted into one channel the op- 
posing interest of two races, that had been distin- 
guished, one for their loyalty to King Charles I. 
the other for their attachment to the Parliament 
that opposed him. It was always his boast, that 
he steered clear of the extremes for which his an- 



cestors had been distinguished, having kept the 
spirit of the one, and acknowledged the subordina- 
tion that distinguished the other. 

Bohngbroke, being thus raised very near the 
summit of power, began to perceive more clearly 
the defects of him who was placed there. He now 
began to find, that Lord Oxford, whose party he 
had followed, and whose person he had esteemed, 
was by no means so able or so industrious as he 
supposed him to be. He now began from his heart 
to renounce the friendship which he once had for 
his coadjutor ; he began to imagine him treache- 
rous, mean, indolent, and invidious ; he even be- 
gan to ascribe his own promotion to Oxford's ha- 
tred, and to suppose that he was sent up to the 
House of Lords only to render him contemptible. 
These suspicions were partly true, and partly sug- 
gested by Bolingbroke's own ambition : being sen- 
sible of his own superior importance and capacity, 
he could not bear to see another take the lead in 
public affairs, when he knew they owed their chief 
success to his own management. Whatever might 
have been his motives, whether of contempt, ha- 
tred, or ambition, it is certain an irreconcileable 
breach began between these two leaders of their 
part}' ; their mutual hatred was so great, that even 
their own common interest, the vigour of their ne- 
gociations, and the safety of their friends, were en- 
tirely sacrificed to it. It veas in vain that Swift, 
who was admitted into their counsels, urged the 
unreasonable impropriety of their disputes ; that, 
while they were thus at variance within the walls, 
the enemy were making irreparable breaches with- 
out. Bolingbroke's antipathy was so great, that 
even success would have been hateful to him if 
Lord Oxford were to be a partner. He abhorred 
him to that degree, that he could not bear to be 
joined with him in any case ; and even some time 
after, when the lives of both were aimed at, he 
could not think of concerting measures with him 
for their mutual safety, preferring even death itself 
to the appearance of a temporary friendship. 

Nothing could have been more weak and injudi- 
cious than their mutual animosities at this junc- 
ture ; and it may be asserted vwth truth, that men 
who were unable to suppress or conceal their re- 
sentments upon such a trying occasion, were unfit 
to take the lead in any measures, be their industry 
or their abilities ever so great. In fact, their dis- 
sensions were soon found to involve not only them, 
but their party in utter ruin ; their hopes had for 
some time been declining, the whigs were daily 
gaining ground, and the queen's death soon after 
totally destroyed all their schemes with their 
power. 

Upon the accession of George I. to the throne, 
danger began to threaten the late ministry on every 
side : whether they had really intentions of bring- 
ing in the Pretender, or whether the whigs made 



LIFE OP HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



411 



it a pretext for destroying them, is uncertain ; but 
the king very soon began to show that they were 
to expect neither favour nor mercy at his hands. 
Upon his landing at Greenwich, when the court 
came to wait upon him, and Lord Oxford among 
the number, he studiously avoided taking any no- 
tice of him, and testified his resentment by the ca- 
resses he bestowed upon the members of the opposite 
faction. A regency had been some time before 
appointed to govern the kingdom, and Addison 
was made Secretary. Bolingbroke still maintain- 
ed his place of State Secretary, but subject to the 
contempt of the great, and the insults of the mean. 
The first step taken by them to mortify him, was 
to order all letters and packets, directed to the Sec- 
retary of State, to be sent to Mi. Addison; so 
that Bolingbroke was in fact removed from his 
office, that is, the execution of it, in two days 
after the queen's death. But this was not the 
worst; for his mortifications were continually 
heightened by the daily humiliation of waiting at 
the door of the apartment where the regency sat, 
with a bag in his hand, and being all the time, as 
it were, exposed to the insolence of those who 
were tempted by their natural malevolence, or who 
expected to make their court to those in power by 
abusing him. 

Upon this sudden turn of fortune, when the 
seals were taken from him, he went into the coun- 
try; and having received a message from court to 
be present when the seal was taken from the door 
of the secretary's office, he excused himself, alleg- 
ing, that so trifling a ceremony might as well be 
performed by one of the under secretaries, but at 
the same time requested the honour of kissing the 
king's hand, to whom he testified the utmost sub- 
mission. This request, however, was rejected 
with disdain ; the king had been taught to regard 
him as an enemy, and threw himself entirely on 
the whigs for safety and protection. 

The new Parhament, mostly composed of whigs, 
met on the 17th of March, and in the king's speech 
from the throne many inflaming hints were given, 
and many methods of violence chalked out to the 
two Houses. " The first steps (says Lord Bo- 
lingbroke, speaking on this occasion) in both were 
perfectly answerable ; and, to the shame of the 
peerage be it spoken, I saw at that time several 
lords concur to condemn, in one general vote, all 
that they had approved in a former Parliament by 
many particular resolutions. Among several 
bloody resolutions proposed and agitated at this 
time, the resolution of impeaching me of high 
treason was taken, and I took that of leaving Eng- 
land, not in a panic terror, improved by the arti- 
fices of the Duke of Marlborough, whom I knew 
even at that time too well to act by his advice or 
information in any case, but on such grounds as 
the proceedmgs which soon followed sufficiently 



justified, and such as I have never repented build- 
ing upon. Those who blamed it in the first heat, 
were soon after obliged to change their language : 
for what other resolution could I take? The me- 
thod of prosecution designed against me would have 
put me out of a condition immediately to act for 
myself, or to serve those who were less exposed 
than me, but who were however in danger. On . 
the other hand, how few were there on whose as- 
sistance I could depend, or to whom I would even 
in these circumstances be obliged? The ferment 
in the nation was wrought up to a considerable 
height ; but there was at that time no reason to 
expect that it could influence the proceedings in 
Parliament, in favour of those who should be ac- 
cused : left to its own movement, it was much 
more proper to quicken than slacken the prosecu- 
tions ; and who was there to guide its motions 7 
The tories, who had been true to one another to 
the last, were a handful, and no great vigour could 
be expected from them; the whimsicals, disap- 
pointed of the figure which they hoped to make, 
began indeed to join their old friends. One of 
the principal among them, namely, the Earl of An- 
glesea, was so very good as to confess to me, that 
if the court had called the servants of the late 
queen to account, and stopped there, he must have 
considered himself as a judge, and acted according 
to his conscience on what should have appeared to 
him ; but that war had been declared to the whole 
tory party, and that now the state of things was 
altered. This discourse needed no commentary, 
and proved to me, that I had never erred in the 
judgment I made of this set of men. Could I then 
resolved to be obliged to them, or to suffer with 
Oxford ? As much as I still was heated by the 
disputes, in which I had been all my life engaged 
against the whigs, I would sooner have chosen to 
owe my security to their indulgence, than to 
the assistance of the wliinisicals ; but 1 thought 
banishment, with all her train of evils, preferable 
to either." 

Such was the miserable situation to which he 
was reduced upon this occasion ; of all the number 
of his former flatterers and dependants, scarcely 
was one found remaining. Every hour brought 
fresh reports of his alarming situation, and the dan- 
gers which threatened him and his party on all 
sides. Prior, who had been employed in nego- 
ciating the treaty of Utrecht, was come over to 
Dover, and promised to reveal all he knew. The 
Duke of Marlborough planted his creatures romid 
his lordship, who artfully endeavoured to increase 
the danger; and an impeachment was actually 
preparing in which he was accused of high treason. 
It argued therefore no great degree of timidity in 
his lordship, to take the first opportunity to with- 
draw from danger, and to suffer the first boilings 
of popular animosity to quench the flame that had 



412 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



heen raised against him : accordingly, having made 
a gallant show of despising the machinations against 
him, having appeared in a very unconcerned man- 
ner at the play-house in Drury-lane, and having 
bespoke another play for the night ensuing ; having 
subscribed to a new opera that was to be acted 
some time after, and talked of making an elaborate 
defence ; he went off that same night in disguise 
to Dover, as a servant to Le Vigne, a messenger be- 
longing to the French king; and there one Wil- 
liam Morgan, who had been a captain in General 
Hill's regiment of dragoons, hired a vessel, and 
carried him over to Calais, where the governor at- 
tended him in his coach, and carried him to his 
house with all possible distinction. 

The news of Lord Bolingbroke's flight was soon 
known over the whole town; and the next day a 
letter from him to Lord Lansdowne was handed 
ahout in print, to the following effect : ■ 

" My Lord, 

" I left the town so abruptly, that I had no time 
to take leave of you or any of my friends. You 
will excuse me, when you know that 1 had certain 
and repeated informations, from some who are in 
the secret of affairs, that a resolution was taken, 
by those who have power to execute it, to pursue 
me to the scaffold. My blood was to have been 
the cement of a new alliance, nor could my inno- 
cence be any security, after it had once been de- 
manded from abroad, and resolved on at home, that 
it was necessary to cut me off. Had there been 
the least reason to hope for a fair and open trial, 
after having been already prejudged unheard by 
the two Houses of Parliament, I should not have 
declined the strictest examination. I challenge the 
most inveterate of my enemies to produce any one 
instance of a criminal correspondence, or the least 
corruption of any part of the administration in 
which I was concerned. If my zeal for the honour 
and dignity of my Royal Mistress, and the true in- 
terest of my country, have any where transported 
me to let slip a warm or unguarded expression, I 
hope the most favourable interpretation will be put 
upon it. It is a comfort that will remain with me 
in all my misfortunes, that I served her majesty 
faithfully and dutifully, in that especially which 
she had most at heart, relieving her people from a 
bloody and expensive war, and that I have also been 
too much an Englishman to sacrifice the interests 
of my country to any foreign ally; and it is for this 
crime only that I am now driven from thence. You 
shall hear more at large from me shortly. 

"Yours," etc. 

No sooner was it universally known that he was 
retired to France, than his flight was construed 
into a proof of his' guilt ; and his enemies accord- 
ingly set about driving on his impeachment with 



redoubled alacrity. Mr., afterwards Sir Robert 
Walpole, who had suffered a good deal by his at- 
tachment to the whig interest during the former 
reign, now undertook to bring in and conduct the 
charge against him in the House of Commons. 
His impeachment consisted of six articles, which 
Walpole read to the House, in substance as fol- 
lows : — First, that whereas the Lord Bolingbroke 
had assured the Dutch ministers, that the queen 
his mistress would make no peace but in concert 
with them, yet he had sent Mr. Prior to France 
that same year with proposals for a treaty of peace 
with that monarch, without the consent of the al- 
lies. Secondly, that he advised and promoted the 
making a separate treaty of convention with France, 
which was signed in September. Thirdly, that he 
disclosed to M. Mesnager, the French minister at 
London, this convention, which was the prelimi- 
nary instructions to her majesty's plenipotentiaries 
at Utrecht. Fourthly, that her majesty's final in- 
structions to her plenipotentiaries were disclosed 
by him to the Abbot Gualtier, who was an emissa- 
ry of France. Fifthl}', that he disclosed to the 
French the manner how Tournay in Flanders 
might be gained by them. And lastly, that he ad- 
vised and promoted the yielding up Spain and the 
West Indies to the Dukeof Anjou, then an enemy 
to her majesty. These were urged by Walpole 
with great vehemence, and aggravated with all the 
eloquence of which he was master. He challenged 
any person in behalf of the accused, and asserted, 
that to vindicate, were in a manner to share his 
guilt. In this universal consternation of the tory 
party, none was for some time seen to stir ; but at 
length General Ross, who had received favours from 
his lordship, boldly stood up, and said, he wondered 
that no man more capable was found to appear in 
defence of the accused. However, in attempting 
to proceed, he hesitated so much that he was 
obliged to sit down, observing, that he would re- 
serve what he had to say to another opportunity. 
It may easily be supposed, that the whigs found no 
great difficulty in passing the vote for his impeach- 
ment through the House of Commons. It was 
brought into that House on the 10th of June, 1715, 
it was sent up to the House of Lords on the 6th 
of August ensuing, and in consequence of which 
he was attainted by them of high treason on the 
10th of September. Nothing could be more unjust 
than such a sentence ; but justice had been drowned 
in the spirit of party. 

Bolingbroke, thus finding all hopes cut off at 
home, began to think of improving his wretched 
fortune upon the continent. He had left England 
with a very small fortune, and his attainder totally 
cut off all resources for the future. In this de- 
pressed situation he began to hsten to some propo- 
sals which were made by the Pretender, who was 
then residing at Bar, in France, and who was de« 



LIFE OP HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



413 



sirous of admitting Bolingbroke into his secret 
councils. A proposal of this nature had been made 
him shortly after his arrival at Paris, and before 
his attainder at home ; but, while he had yet any 
hopes of succeeding in England, he absolutely re- 
fused, and made the best applications his ruined 
fortune would permit, to prevent the extremity 
of his prosecution. 

He had for some time waited for an opportunity 
of determining himself, even after he found it vain 
to think of making his peace at home. • He let his 
Jacobite friends in England know that they had 
but to command him, and he was ready to venture 
in their service the little all that remained, as frank- 
ly as he had exposed all that was gone. At length, 
says he, talking of himself, these commands came, 
and were executed in the following manner. The 
person who was sent to me arrived in the begin- 
ning of July, 1715, at the place I had retired to in 
Dauphiny. He spoke in the name of all his friends 
whose authority could influence me ; and he brought 
word, that Scotland was not only ready to take 
arms, but under some sort of dissatisfaction to be 
withheld from beginning : that in England the 
people were exasperated against the government 
to such a degree, that, far from wanting to be en- 
couraged, they could not be restrained from insult- 
ing it on every occasion ; that the whole tory party 
was become avowedly Jacobites ; that many officers 
of the army, and the majority of the soldiers, were 
well affected to the cause; that the city of London 
was ready to rise, and that the enterprises for seiz- 
ing of several places were ripe for execution; in a 
word, that most of the principal tories were in con- 
cert with the Duke of Ormond : for I had pressed 
particularly to be informed whether his grace acted 
alone, or if not, who were his council ; and that the 
others were so disposed, that there remained no 
doubt of their joining as soon as the first blow 
should be struck. He added, that my friends were 
a little surprised to observe that I lay neuter in such 
a conjuncture. He represented to me the danger 
I ran, of being prevented by people of all sides from 
having the merit of engaging early in this enter- 
prise, and how unaccountable it would be for a man, 
impeached and attainted under the present govern- 
ment, to take no share in bringing about a revolu- 
tion, so near at hand and so certain. He entreated 
that I would defer no longer to join the Chevalier, 
to advise and assist in carrying on his affairs, and 
to solicit and negociate at the court of France, 
where my friends imagined that I should not fail 
to rneet a favourable reception, and whence they 
made no doubt of receiving assistance in a situation 
of affairs so critical, so unexpected, and so promis- 
ing. He concluded, by giving me a letter from the 
Pretender, whom he had seen in his way to me, 
m which I was pressed to repair without loss of 
time to Commercj J and this instance was ground- 



ed on the message which the bearer of the letter 
had brought me from England. In the progress 
of the conversation with the messenger, he related 
a number of facts, which satisfied me as to the 
general disposition of the people; but he gave me 
little satisfaction as to the measures taken to im- 
prove this disposition, for driving the business on 
with vigour, if it tended to a revolution, or for sup- 
porting it to advantage, if it spun into a war. When 
I questioned him concerning several persons whose 
disinclination to the government admitted no doubt, 
and whose names, quality, and experience were 
very essential to the success of the undertaking, he 
owned to me that they kept a great reserve, and 
did at most but encourage others to act by general 
and dark expressions. I received this account and 
this summons ill in my bed ; yet important as the 
matter was, a few minutes served to determine me. 
The circumstances wanting to form a reasonable 
inducement to engage did not excuse me; but 
the smart of a bill of attainder tingled in every 
vein, and I looked on my party to be under op- 
pression, and to call for my assistance. Besides 
which, 1 considered first that I should be certainly 
informed, when I conferred with the Chevalier, of 
many particulars unknown to this gentleman : for 
I did not imagine that the English could be so 
near to take up arms as he represented them to 
be, on no other foundation than that which he ex- 
posed. 

In this manner, having for some time debated 
with himself, and taken his resolution, he lost no 
time in repairing to the Pretender at Commercy, 
and took the seals of that nominal king, as he had 
formerly those of his potent mistress. But this was 
a terrible falling off indeed; and the very first con- 
versation he had with this weak projector, gave 
him the most unfavourable expectations of future 
success. He talked to me, says his lordship, like 
a man who expected every moment to set out for 
England or Scotland, but who did not very well 
know for which : and when he entered into the 
particulars of his affairs, I found, that concerning 
the former he had nothing more circumstantial or 
positive to go upon than what I have already re- 
lated. But the Duke of Ormond had been for some 
time, I can not say how long, engaged with the 
Chevalier : he had taken the direction of this whole 
affair, as far as it related to England, upon himself; 
and had received a commission for this purpose, 
which contained the most ample powers that could 
be given. But still, however, all was unsettled, 
undetermined, and ill understood. The duke had 
asked from France a small body of forces, a sum 
of money, and a quantity of ammunition : but to 
the first part of the request he received a flat deni- 
al, but was made to hope that some arms and some 
ammunition might be given. This was but a very 
gloomy prospect ; yet hope swelled the depressed 



414 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



party so high, that they talked of nothing less than 
an instant and ready revolution. It was their in- 
terest to be secret and industrious ; but, rendered 
sanguine by their passions, they made no doubt of 
subverting a government with which they were 
angry, and gave as great an alarm as would have 
been imprudent at the eve of a general insurrec- 
tion. 

Such was the state of things when Bolingbroke 
arrived to take up his new office at Commercy ; and 
although he saw the deplorable state of the party 
with which he was embarked, yet he resolved to 
give his affairs the best complexion he was able, 
and set out for Paris, in order to procure from that 
court the necessary succours for his new master's 
invasion of England. But his reception and ne- 
gociations at Paris were still more unpromising 
than those at Commercy ; and nothing but absolute 
-infatuation seemed to dictate every measure taken 
by the party. He there found a multitude of 
people at work, and every one doing what seemed 
good in his own eyes ; no subordination, no order, 
no concert. The Jacobites had wrought one another 
up to look upon the success of the present designs 
as infallible : every meeting-house which the popu- 
lace demolished, as he himself says, every little 
drunken riot which happened, served to confirm 
them in these sanguine expectations ; and there was 
hardly one among them, who would lose the air 
of contributing by his intrigues to the restoration, 
which he took for granted would be brought about 
-in a few weeks. Care and hope, says our author 
very humorously, sat on every busy Irish face; 
: those who could read and write had letters to show, 
.and those who had not arrived to this pitch of eru- 
dition had their secrets to whisper. No sex was 
excluded from this ministry ; Fanny Oglethorpe 
kept her corner in it; and Olive Trant, a woman 
of the same mixed reputation, was the great wheel 
of this political machine. The ridiculous corres- 
pondence was carried on with England by people 
of like importance, and who were busy in sound- 
ing the alarm in the ears of an €nemy, whom it 
was their interest to surprise. By these means, as 
he himself continues to inform us, the government 
of England was put on its guard, so that before he 
came to Paris, what was doing had been discover- 
ed. The httle armament made at Havre de Grace, 
which furnished the only means to the Pretender 
of landing on the coasts of Britain, and which had 
exhausted the treasury of St. Germain's, was talk- 
red of publicly. The Earl of Stair, the English 
minister at that city, very soon discovered its desti- 
nation, and all the particulars of the intended in- 
•vasion; the names of the persons fi-om whom sup- 
plies came, and who were particularly active in the 
design, were whispered about at tea-tables and 
coffee-houses. In short, what by the indiscretion 
of the projectors, what by the private interests and 



ambitious views of the French, the most private 
transactions came to light; and such of the more 
prudent plotters, who supposed that they had trust- 
ed their heads to the keeping of one or two friends, 
were in reality at the mercy of numbers. Into 
such company, exclaims our noble writer, was I 
fallen for my sins. Still, however, he went on, 
steering in the wide ocean without a compass, till 
the death of Louis XIV., and the arrival of the 
Duke of Ormond at Paris, rendered all his en- 
deavours abortive : yet, notwithstanding these un- 
favourable circumstances, he still continued to dis- 
patch several messages and directions for England, 
to which he received very evasive and ambiguous 
answers. Among the number of these, he drew 
up a paper at Chaville, in concert with the Duke 
of Ormond, Marshal Berwick, and De Torcy, 
which was sent to England just before the death of 
the King of France, representing that France couy 
not answer the demands of their memorial, and 
praying directions what to do. A reply to this 
came to him through the French Secretary of State, 
wherein they declared themselves unable to say 
any thing, till they saw what turn affairs would 
take on the death of the king, which had reached 
their ears. Upon another occasion, a message 
coming from Scotland to press the Chevalier to 
hasten their rising, he dispatched a messenger to 
London to the Earl of Mar, to tell him that the 
concurrence of England in the insurrection was ar- 
dently wished and expected : but, instead of that 
nobleman's waiting for instructions, he had already 
gone into the Highlands, and there actually put 
himself at the head of his clans. After this, in 
concert with the Duke of Ormond, he dispatched 
one Mr. Hamilton, who got all the papers by heart, 
for fear of a miscarriage, to their friends in Eng- 
land, to inform them, that though the ChevaUei 
was destitute of succour, and all reasonable hopes 
of it, yet he would land as they pleased in England 
or Scotland at a minute's warning; and therefore 
they might rise immediately after they had sent 
dispatches to him. To this message Mr. Hamil- 
ton returned very soon with an answer given by 
Lord Lansdowne, in the name of all the persons 
privy to the secret, that since affairs grew daily 
worse, and would not mend by delay, the mal- 
contents in England had resolved to declare im- 
mediately, and would be ready to join the Duke 
of Orrnond on his landing; adding, that his person 
would be as safe in England as in Scotland, and 
that in every other respect it was better he should 
land in England ; that they had used their utmost 
endeavours, and hoped the western counties would 
be in a good posture to receive him ; and that he 
should land as near as possible to Plymouth. With 
these assurances the duke embarked, though he 
had heard before of the seizure of many of his most 
zealous adherents, of the dispersion of many more 



LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGEROKE. 



415 



and the consternation of all ; so that upon his ar- 
rival at Plymouth, finding nothing in readiness, he 
returned to Britany. In these circumstances the 
Pretender himself sent to have a vessel got ready 
for him at Dunkirk, in v^hich he went to Scotland, 
leaving Lord Bolingbroke all this while at Paris, 
to try if by any means some assistance might not 
be procured, without which all hopes of success 
were at an end. It was during this negociation 
upon this miserable proceeding, that he was sent 
for by Mrs. Trant (a woman who had for some 
time before ingratiated herself with the Regent of 
France, by supplying him with mistresses from 
England), to a little house in the Bois de Boulogne, 
where she lived with Mademoiselle Chausery, an 
old superannuated waiting-woman belonging to 
the regent. By these he was acquainted with the 
measures they had taken for the service of the 
Duke of Ormond ; although Bolingbroke, who was 
actual secretary to the negociation, had never been 
admitted to a confidence in their secrets. He was 
therefore a little surprised at finding such mean 
agents employed without his privity, and very soon 
found them utterly unequal to the task. He quick- 
ly therefore withdrew himself from such wretched 
auxiliaries, and the regent himself seemed pleased 
at his defection. 

In the mean time the Pretender set sail from Dun- 
kirk for Scotland; and though Bolingbroke had 
all along perceived that his cause was hopeless, 
and his projects ill-designed ; although he had met 
with nothing but opposition and disappointment in 
his service ; yet he considered that this of all others 
was the time he could not be permitted to relax in 
the cause. He now therefore neglected no means, 
forgot no argument which his understanding could 
suggest, in applying to the court of France ; but 
his success was not answerable to his industry. 
The King of France, not able to furnish the Pre- 
tender with money himself, had written some time 
before his death to his grandson the King of Spain, 
and had obtained from him a promise of forty 
thousand crowns. A small part of this sum had 
been received by the queen's treasurer at St. Ger- 
main's, and had been sent to Scotland, or employ- 
ed to defray the expenses which were daily mak- 
ing on the coast ; at the same tin. 3 Bolingbroke 
pressed the Spanish ambassador at Paris, and so- 
licited the minister at the court of Spain. He 
took care to have a number of officers picked out 
of the Irish troops which serve in France, gave 
them their routes, and sent a ship to receive and 
transport them to Scotland. Still, however, the 
money came in so slowly, and in such trifling sums, 
that it turned to little account, and the officers 
were on their way to the Pretender. At the same 
time he formed a design of engaging French pri- 
vateers in the expedition, that were to have carried 
whatever should be necessary to send to any part 



of Britain in their first voyage, and then to cruise 
under the Pretender's commission. He had ac- 
tually agreed for some, and had it in his power to 
have made the same bargain with others : Sweden 
on the one side, and Scotland on the other, could 
have aflbrded them retreats ; and, if the war had 
been kept up in any part of the mountains, this 
armament would have been of the utmost advan- 
tage. But all his projects and negociations failed 
by the Pretender's precipitate return, who was not 
above six weeks in his expedition, and flew out of 
Scotland even before all had been tried in his de- 
fence. 

The expedition being in this manner totally de- 
feated, Bolingbroke now began to think that it was 
his duty as well as interest to save the poor re- 
mains of the disappointed party. He never had 
any great opinion of the Pretender's success be- 
fore he set off; but when this adventurer had taken 
the last step which it was in his power to make, 
our secretary then resolved to suffer neither him, 
nor the Scotch, to be any longer bubbles of their 
own credulity, and of the scandalous artifices of 
the French court. In a conversation he had with 
the Marshal de Huxelles, he took occasion to de- 
clare, that he would not be the instrument of amus- 
ing the Scotch ; and since he was able to do them 
no other service, he would at least inform them 
of what little dependence they might place upors 
assistance from France. He added, that he would 
send them vessels, which, with those already on 
the coast of Scotland, might serve to bring off the 
Pretender, the Earl of Mar, and as many others 
as possible. The Marshal approved his resolu- 
tion, and advised him to execute it, as the only 
thing which was left to do ; but in the mean time 
the Pretender landed at Graveline, and gave orders 
to stop all vessels bound on his account to Scot- 
land ; and Bolingbroke saw him the morning after 
his arrival at St. Germain's, and he received him 
with open arms. 

As it was the secretary's business, as soon as 
Bolingbroke heard of his return, he went to ac- 
quaint the French court with it ; when it was re- 
commended to him to advise the Pretender to pro- 
ceed to Bar with all possible diligence ; and in this 
measure Bolingbroke entirely concurred. But the 
Pretender himself was in no such haste : he had 
a mind to stay some time at St. Germain's, and in 
the neighbourhood of Paris, and to have a private 
meeting with the regent : he accordingly sent 
Bolingbroke to solicit this meeting, who exerted all 
his influence in the negociation. He wrote and 
spoke to the Marshall de Huxelles, who answered 
him by word of mouth and by letters, refusing 
him by both, and assuring him that the regent said 
the things which were asked were pueriUties, and 
swore he would not see him. The secretary, no 
ways displeased with his ill success, returned with 



416 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



this answer to his master, who acquiesced in this 
determination, and declared he would instantly set 
out for Lorrain, at the same time assuring Boling- 
broke of his firm reliance on his integrity. 

However, the Pretender, instead of taking post 
for Lorrain, as he had promised, went to a little 
house in the Bois de Boulogne, where his female 
ministers resided, and there continued for several 
days, seeing the Spanish and Swedish ministers, 
and even the regent himself. It might have been 
in these interviews that he was set against his new 
secretary, and taught to believe that he had been 
remiss in his duty and false to his trust : be this as 
it will, a few days after the Duke of Ormond came 
to see Bolingbroke, and, having first prepared him 
for the surprise, put into his hands a note directed 
to the duke, and a httle scrip of paper directed to 
the secretary : they were both in the Pretender's 
hand-writing, and dated as if written by him on 
his way to Lorrain ; but in this Bolingbroke was 
not to be deceived, who knew the place of his pre- 
sent residence. In one of these papers the Pre- 
tender declared that he had no further occasion for 
the secretary's service ; and the other was an order 
to him to give up the papers in his office ; all which, 
he observes, might have been contained in a letter- 
case of a moderalie size. He gave the duke the 
seals, and some papers which he could readily come 
at ; but for some others, in which there were seve- 
ral insinuations, under the Pretender's own hand, 
reflecting upon the -duke himself, these he took 
care to convey by a safe hand, since it would have 
been very improper that the duke should have seen 
them. As he thus gave up without scruple all the 
papers which remained in his hands, because he 
was determined never to make use of them, so he 
declares he took a secret pride in never asking for 
those of his own which were in the Pretender's 
hands; contenting himself with making the duke 
understand, how little need there was to get rid of 
a man in this manner, who only wanted an oppor- 
tunity to get rid of the Pretender and his cause. 
In fact, if we survey the measures taken on the 
one side, and the abilities of the man on the other, 
it will not appear any way wonderful that he 
should be disgusted with a party, who had neither 
principle to give a foundation to their hopes, union 
to advance them, nor abilities to put them in 
motion. 

Bolingbroke, being thus dismissed from the Pre- 
tender's service, supposed that he had got rid of 
the trouble and the ignominy of so mean an em- 
ployment at the same time ; but he was mistaken : 
he was no sooner rejected from the office than ar- 
ticles of impeachment were preferred against him, 
in the same manner as he had before been im- 
peached in England, though not with such effectual 
injury to his person and fortune. The articles of 
his impeachment by the Pretender were branched 



out into seven heads, in which he was accused of 
treachery, incapacity, and neglect. The first was, 
that he was never to be found by those who came 
to him about business ; and if by chance or strata- 
gem they got hold of hiin, he aftectpd being in a 
hurry, and by putting them off to another time, 
still avoided giving them any answer. The second 
was, that the Earl of Mar complained, by six dif- 
ferent messengers at different times, before the 
Chevalier came from Dunkirk, of his being in 
want of arms and ammunition, and prayed a speedy 
relief; and though the things demanded were in 
my lord's power, there was not so much as one 
pound of powder in any of the ships which by his 
lordship's directions parted from France. Thirdly, 
the Pretender himself after his arrival sent Gene- 
ral Hamilton to inform him. that his want of arms 
and ammunition was such, that he should be oblig- 
ed to leave Scotland, unless he received speedy re- 
lief ; yet Lord Bolingbroke amused Mr. Hamilton 
twelve days together, and did not introduce him 
to any of the French ministers, though he was re- 
ferred to them for a particular account of affairs ; 
or so much as communicated his letters to the 
queen, or any body else. Fourthly, the Count de 
Castel Blanco had for several months at Havre a 
considerable quantity of arms and ammunition, 
and did daily ask his lordship's orders how to dis- 
pose of them, but never got any instructions. 
Fifthly, the Pretender's friends at the French 
court had for some time past no very good opinion 
of his lordship's integrity, and a very bad one of 
his discretion. Sixthly, at a time when many 
merchants in France would have carried privately 
any quantity of arms and ammunition into Scot- 
land, his lordship desired a public order for the em- 
barkation, which being a thing not to be granted, 
is said to have been done in order to urge a denial. 
Lastly, the Pretender wrote to his lordship by every 
occasion after his arrival in Scotland ; and though 
there were many opportunities of writing in re- 
turn, yet, from the time he landed there to the day 
he left it, he never received any letter from his 
lordship. Such were the articles, by a very extra- 
ordinary reverse of fortune, preferred against Lord 
Bolingbroke, in less than a year after similar arti- 
cles were drawn up against him by the opposite 
party at home. It is not easy to find out what he 
could have done thus to disoblige all sides ; but he 
had learned by this time to make out happiness 
from the consciousness of his own designs, and to 
consider all the rest of mankind as uniting in a 
faction to oppress virtue. 

But though it was mortifying to be thus rejected 
on both sides, yet he was not remiss in vindicating 
himself from all. Against these articles of im- 
peachment, therefore, he drew up an elaborate an- 
swer in which he vindicates himself with great 
plausibility. He had long, as he asserts, wished 



LIFE OP HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



417 



to leave the Pretender's service, but was entirely at 
a loss how to conduct himself in so difficult a re- 
signation ; but at length, says he, the Pretender 
and his council disposed of things better for me 
than I could have done for myself. I had resolved, 
on his return from Scotland, to follow him till his 
residence should be fixed somewhere ; after which, 
having served the tories in this, which I looked 
upon as their last struggle for power, and having 
continued to act in the Pretender's afiairs till the 
end of the term for wliich I embarked with him, I 
should have esteemed myself to be at liberty, and 
should, in the civilest manner I was able, have 
taken my leave of him. PTad we parted thus, 
I should have remained in a very strange situation 
all the rest of ray life ; on one side he would have 
thought that he had a right on any future occasion 
to call me out of my retreat, the tories would pro- 
bably have thought the same thing ; my resolution 
was taken to refuse them both, and I foresaw that 
both would condemn me ; on the other side, the 
consideration of his having kept measures with me, 
joined to that of having once openly declared for 
him, would have created a point of honour, by 
which I should have been tied down, not only from 
ever engaging against him, but also from making 
my peace at home. The Pretender cut this Gordian 
knot asunder at one blow ; he broke the links of 
that chain which former engagements had fastened 
on me, and gave me a right to esteem myself as 
free from all obligations of keeping measures with 
him, as I should have continued if I had never en- 
gaged in his interest. 

It is not to be supposed that one so very delicate 
to preserve his honour, would previously have 
basely betrayed his employer ; a man, conscious of 
acting so infamous a part, would have undertalten 
no defence, but let the accusations, which could 
not materially affect him, blow over, and wait for 
the calm that was to succeed in tranquillity. He 
appeals to all the ministers with whom he transact- 
ed business, for the integrity of his proceedings at 
that juncture; and had he been really guilty, 
when he opposed the ministry here after his return, 
they would not have failed to brand and detect his 
duplicity. The truth is, that he perhaps was the 
most disinterested minister at that time in the Pre- 
tender's court; as he had spent great sums of his 
own money in his service, and never would be 
obliged to him for a farthing, in which case he be- 
lieves he was single. His integrity is much less 
impeachable on this occasion than his ambition ; for 
all the steps he took may be fairly ascribed to his 
displeasure at having the Duke of Ormond and the 
Earl of IS'Iar treated more confidentially than him- 
self. It was his aim always to be foremost in every 
administration, and he could not bear to act as 
subaltern to so paltry a court ai that of the Pre- 
tender's. 

S7 



At all periods of his exile, he still looked towards 
home with secret regret ; and had even taken every 
opportunity to apply to those in power, either to 
soften his prosecutions, or lessen the number of his 
enemies at home. In accepting his office under the 
Pretender, he made it a condition to be at liberty to 
quit the post whenever he should think proper; 
and being now disgracefully dismissed, he turned 
his mind entirely towards making his peace in 
England, and employing all the unfortunate expe- 
rience he had acquired to undeceive his tory friends, 
and to promote the union and quiet of his native 
country. It was not a little favourable to his hopes, 
that about this time, though unknown to him, the 
Earl of Stair, ambassador to the French court, had 
received full power to treat with him whilst he was 
engaged with the Pretender ; but yet had never 
made him any proposals, which might be consider- 
ed as the grossest outrage. But when the breach 
with the Pretender was universally known, the 
earl sent one Monsieur Saludin, a gentleman of 
Geneva, to Lord Bolingbroke, to communicate to 
him his Majesty King George's favourable dispo- 
tion to grant him a pardon, and his own earnest 
desire to serve him as far as he was able. This 
was an offer by much too advantageous for Boling- 
broke, in his wretched circumstances, to refuse ; he 
embraced it, as became him to do, with all possible 
sense of the king's goodness, and of the ambassa- 
dor's friendship. They had frequent conferences 
shortly after upon the subject. The turn which 
the English ministry gave the matter, was to enter 
into a treaty to reverse his attainder, and to stipu- 
late the conditions on which this act of grace should 
be granted him : but this method of negociation he 
would by no means submit to; the notion of a 
treaty shocked him, and he resolved never to be re- 
stored, rather than go that vyay to work. Accord- 
ingly, he opened himself without any reserve to 
Lord Stair, and told him, that he looked upon him- 
self obliged in honour and conscience to undeceive 
his friends in England, both as to the state of for- 
eign affairs, as to the management of the Jacobite 
interest abroad, and as to the characters of the 
persons ; in every one of which points he knew 
them to be most grossly and most dangerously de- 
luded. He observed, that the treatment he had 
received from the Pretender and his adherents, 
would justify him to the world in doing this ; that, 
if he remained in exile all his life, he might be as- 
sured that he would never have more to do with 
the Jacobite cause ; and that, if he were restored, 
he would give it an effectual blow, in making that 
apology which the Pretender had put him under a 
necessity of maldng : that in doing this, he flatter- 
ed himself that he should contribute something to- 
wards the establishment of the lung's government, 
and to the union of his subjects. He added, that 
if the court thought him sincere in those profes- 



418 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



sions, a treaty with him was unnecessary; and 
if they did not believe so, then a treaty would be 
dangerous to him. The Earl of Stair, who has 
also confirmed this account of Lord Bolingbroke's, 
in a letter to Mr. Craggs, readily came into his 
sentiments on this head, and soon after the king 
approved it upon their representations ; he accord- 
ingly received a promise of pardon from George I., 
who, on the 2d of July, 1716, created his father 
Baron of Battersea, in the county of Surrey, and 
Viscount St. John. This seemed preparatory to 
his own restoration ; and, instead of prosecuting 
any further ambitious schemes against the govern- 
ment, he rather began to turn his mind to philoso- 
phy; and since he could not gratify his ambition to 
its full extent, he endeavoured to learn the art of 
despising it. The variety of distressful events that 
had hitherto attended all his struggles, at last had 
thrown him into a state of reflection, and this pro- 
duced, by way of relief, a consolatio philosophica, 
which he wrote the same year, under the title of 
" Reflections upon Exile." In this piece, in which 
he professes to imitate the manner of Seneca, he 
with some wit draws his own picture, and repre- 
sents himself as suffering persecution, for having 
served his country with abilities and integrity. A 
state of exile thus incurred, he very justly shows to 
be rather honourable than distressful ; and indeed 
there are few men who will deny, that the com- 
pany of strangers to virtue is better than the com- 
pany of enemies to it. Besides this philosophical 
tract, he also wrote this year several letters, -in an- 
swer to the charges laid upon him by the Pretender 
and his adherents ; and the following year he drew 
up a vindication of his whole conduct with respect 
to the tories, in the form of a letter to Sir William 
Windham. 

Nor was he so entirely devoted to the fatigues of 
business, but that he gave pleasure a share in its 
pursuits. He had never much agreed with the la- 
dy he first married, and after a short cohabitation 
they separated, and lived ever after asunder. She 
therefore remained in England upon his going into 
exile, and by proper application to the throne, was 
allowed a sufficient maintenance to support her 
with becoming dignity : however, she did not long 
survive his first disgrace ; and upon his becoming 
a widower he began to thinlc of trying his fortune 
once more in a state which was at first so unfa- 
vourable. For this purpose he cast his eye on the 
widow of A^'illette. a niece to the famous Madame 
Maintenon ; a young lady of great merit and un- 
derstanding, possessed of a very large fortune, but 
encumbered with a long and troublesome law-suit. 
In the company of this very sensible woman he 
passed his time in France, sometimes in the coun- 
try, and sonjetimes at the capital, till the year 1733, 
in which, after the breaking up of the Parliament, 
his majesty was pleased to giant him a pardon as 



to his personal safety, but as yet neither restoring 
him to his family inheritance, his title, nor a seat 
in Parliament. 

To obtain this favour had been the governing 
principle of his politics for some years before ; and 
upon the first notice of his good fortune, he pre- 
pared to return to his native country, where, how- 
ever, his dearest connexions were either dead, or 
declared themselves suspicious of his former con- 
duct in support of their party. It is observable that 
Bishop Atterbury, who was banished at this time 
for a supposed treasonable correspondence in favour 
of the tories, was set on shore at Calais, just when 
Lord Bolingbroke arrived there on his return to- 
England. So extraordinary a reverse of fortune 
could not fail of strongly affecting that good pre- 
late, who observed with some emotion, that he per- 
ceived himself to be exchanged : he presently left it 
to his auditors to imagine, whether his country 
were the loser or the gainer by such an exchange. 

Lord Bolingbroke, upon his return to his native 
country, began to make very vigorous applications 
for further favours from the crown : his pardon, 
without the means of support, was but an empty, 
or perhaps it might be called a distressful act of 
kindness, as it brought him back among his former 
friends in a state of inferiority his pride could not 
endure. However, his applications were soon after 
successful, for in about two years after his return 
he obtained an act of Parliament to restore him to 
his family inheritance, which amounted to nearly 
three thousand pounds a-j^ear. He was also ena- 
bled by the same to possess any purchase he should 
make of any other estate in the kingdom ; and he 
accordingly pitched upon a seat of Lord Tanker- 
ville's, at Dawley, near Uxbridge, in Middlesex, 
where he settled with his lady, and laid hunself out 
to enjoy the rural pleasures in perfection, since the 
more glorious ones of ambition were denied him. 
With this resolution he began to improve his new 
purchase in a very pecuhar style, giving it all the 
air of a country farm, and adorning even his hall 
with all the implements of husbandry. We have 
a sketch of his way of living in tliis retreat in a let- 
ter of Pope's to Swift, who omits no opportunity 
of representing his lordship in the most amiable 
points of view. This letter is dated from Dawley, 
the country farm abovementioned, and begins thus : 
" I now hold the pen for my Lord Bolingbroke, 
who is reading your letter between two hay-cocks ; 
but his attention is somewhat diverted, by casting 
his eyes on the clouds, not in the admiration of what 
you say, but for fear of a shower. He is pleased 
with your placing him in the triumvirate between 
yourself and me ; though he says he doubts he shall 
fare like Lepidus, while one of us runs away with 
all the power, like Augustus, and another with all 
the pleasure, like Antony. It is upon a foresight 
of this, that he has fitted up Ids farm, and j'ou will 



LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



419 



agree that ihu scheme of retreat is not founded 
upon weak appearances. Upon his return from 
Bath, he finds all peccant humours are purged out 
of him; and his great temperance and economy are 
so signal, that the first is fit for my constitution, 
and the latter would enable you to lay up so much 
money as to buy a bishopric in England. As to 
the return of his health and vigour, were you here, 
you might inquire of his hay-makers ; but as to his 
temperance, I can answer that for one whole day 
we have had nothing for dinner but mutton-broth, 
beans and bacon, and a barn-door fowl. JNTow his 
lordship is run after his cart, I have a moment left 
to myself to tell you, that I -overheard him yesterday 
agree with a painter for two hundred pounds, to 
paint his country hall with rakes, spades, prongs, 
etc. and other ornaments, merely to countenance 
his calling this place a farm." What Pope here 
says of his engagements with a painter, was shortly 
after executed ; the hall was painted accordingly 
inbkck crayons only, so that at first view it brought 
to mind the figures often seen scratched with char- 
coal, or the smoke of a candle, upon the kitchen 
walls of farm-houses. The whole, however, pro- 
duced a most striking effect, and over the door at 
the entrance into it was this motto : Satis beatus 
ruris honoribus. His lordship seemed to be ex- 
tremely happy in this pursuit of moral tranquillity, 
and in the exultation of his heart could not fail of 
communicating his satisfaction to his friend Swift. 
" I am in my own farm," says he, " and here I 
shoot strong and tenacious roots : I have caught 
hold of the earth, to use a gardener's phrase, and 
neither my enemies nor my friends will find it an 
easy matter to transplant me again." 

There is not, perhaps, a stronger instance in the 
world than his lordship, that an ambitious mind can 
never be fairly subdued, but will still seek for those 
gratifications which retirement can never supply. 
All this time he was mistaken in his passion for 
solitude, and supposed that to be the child of philo- 
sophy, which was only the effect of spleen : it was 
in vain that he attempted to take root in the shade 
of obscurity; he was originally bred in the glare 
of public occupation, and he secretly once more 
■wished for transplantation. He was only a titular 
lord, he had not been thoroughly restored ; and, as 
he was excluded from a seat in the House of Peers, 
he burned with impatience to play a part in that 
conspicuous theatre. Impelled by this desire, he 
could no longer be restrained in obscurity, but once 
more entered into the bustle of public business, and 
disavowing all obligations to the minister, he em- 
barked in the opposition against him, in which he 
had several powerful coadjutors : but previously he 
had taken care to prefer a petition to the House 
of Commons, desiring to be reinstated in his former 
emoluments and capacities. This petition at first 
occasioned very warm debates : Walpole, who pre- 



tended to espouse his cause, alleged that it was 
very right to admit him to his inheritance ; and 
when Lord WiUiam Pawlet moved for a clause to 
disqualify him from sitting in either House, Wal- 
pole rejected the motion, secretly satisfied with a 
resolution which had been settled in the cabinet, 
that he should never more be admitted into any 
share of power. To this artful method of evading 
his pretensions, Bolingbroke was no stranger ; and 
he was now resolved to shake that power which 
thus endeavoured to obstruct the increase of his 
own : taking, therefore, his part in the opposition 
with Pulteney, while the latter engaged to manage 
the House of Commons, Bolingbroke undertook to 
enlighten the people. Accordingl}', he soon dis- 
tinguished himself by a multitude of pieces, written 
during the latter part of George the First's reign, 
and likewise the beginning of that which succeed- 
ed. These were conceived with great vigour and 
boldness ; and now, once more engaged in the ser- 
vice of his country, though disarmed, gagged, and 
almost bound, as he declared himself to be, yet he 
resolved not to abandon his cause, as long as he 
could depend on the firmness and integrity of those 
coadjutors, who did not labour under the same dis- 
advantages with himself. His letters, in a paper 
called the Craftsman, were particularly distinguish- 
ed in this political contest ; and though several of 
the most expert ' politicians of the time joined in 
this paper, his essays were peculiarly relished by 
the public. However, it is the fate of things writ- 
ten to an occasion, seldom to survive that occasion : 
the Craftsman, though written with great spirit 
and sharpness, is now almost forgotten, although, 
when it was published as a weekly paper, it sold 
much more rapidly than even the Spectator. Be- 
side this work he published several other separate 
pamphlets, which were afterwards reprinted in the 
second edition of his works, and which were very 
popular in their day. This political warfare con- 
tinued for ten years, during which time he laboured 
with great strength and perseverance, and drew up 
such a system of politics, as some have supposed to 
be the most complete now existing. But, as upon 
all other occasions, he had the mortification once 
more to see those friends desert him, upon whose 
assistance he most firmly relied, and all that web 
of fine-spun speculation actually destroyed at once, 
by the ignorance of some and the perfidy of others. 
He then declared that he was perfectly cured of his 
patriotic frenzy ; he fell out not only with Pulteney 
for his selfish views, but with his old friends the 
tories, for abandoning their cause as desperate; 
averring, that the faint and unsteady exercise of 
parts on one side, was a crime but one degree infe ■ 
rior to the iniquitous misapplication of them on the 
other. B ut he could not take leave of a controversy 
in which he had been so many years engaged, with- 
out giving a parting blow, in which he seemed to 



420 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



summon up all his \igour at once : and where, as 
the poet says, 

Animam in vulnere posuit. 

This inimitable piece is entitled, " A Dissertation 
on Parties," and of all his masterly pieces it is in 
general esteemed the best. 

Having finished this, which was received with 
the utmost avidity, he resolved to take leave, not 
only of his enemies and friends, but even of his 
country ; and in this resolution, in the year 1736, 
he once more retired to France, where he looked 
to his native country with a mixture of anger and 
pity, and upon his former professing friends with 
a share of contempt and indignation. " I expect 
little," says he, "from the principal actors that tread 
the stage at present. They are divided, not so 
much as it seemed, and as they would have it be- 
lieved, about measures ; the true division is about 
their different ends. Whilst the minister was not 
hard pushed, nor the prospect of succeeding to him 
near, they appeared to have but one end, the re- 
formation of the government. The destruction of 
the minister was pursued only as a preliminary, but 
of essential and indisputable necessity, to that end; 
but when his destruction seemed to approach, the 
object of his succession interposed to the sight of 
many, and the reformation of the government was 
no longer their point of view. They had divided 
the skin, at least in their thought, before they had 
taken the beast. The common fear of hastening 
his downfal for others, made them all faint in the 
chase. It was this, and this alone that saved him, 
and put off his evil day." 

Such were his cooler reflections, after he had 
laid down his political pen, to employ it in a man- 
ner that was much more agreeable to his usual pro- 
fessions, and his approaching age. He had long em- 
ployed the few hours he could spare, on subjects of 
a more general and important nature to the interests 
of mankind ; but as he was frequently interrrupted 
by the alarms of party, he made no great proficiency 
in his design. Still, however, he kept it in view, 
and he makes frequent mention in his letters to 
Swift, of his intentions to give metaphysics a new 
and useful turn. "I know," says he, "in one of 
these, how little regard you pay to writings of this 
kind ; but I imagine, that if you can like any, it 
must be those that strip metaphysics of all their 
bombast, keep within the sight of every well con- 
stituted eye, and never bewilder themselves, whilst 
they pretend to guide the reason of others." 

Having now arrived at the sixtieth year of his 
age, and being blessed with a very competent share 
of fortune, he returned into France, far from the 
noise and hurry of party ; for his seat at Dawley 
was too near to devote the rest of his life to retire 
raent and study. Upon his going to that country, 
as it was generally known that disdain, vexation, 



and disappointment had driven him there, many of 
his friends as well as his enemies supposed that he 
was once again gone over to the Pretender. Among 
the number who entertained this suspicion was 
Swift, whom Pope, in one of his letters, very round- 
ly chides for harbouring such an unjust opinion. 
"You should be cautious," says he, "of censuring , 
any motion or action of Lord Bolingbroke, because 
you hear it only from a shallow, envious, and ma- 
licious reporter. What you writ to me about him, 
I find, to my great scandal, repeated in one of 
your's to another. Whatever you might hint to 
me, was this for the profane? The thing, if true, 
should be concealed : but it is, I assure you, abso- 
lutely untrue in every circumstance. He has 
fixed in a very agreeable retirement near Fontaine- 
bleau, and makes it his whole business vacare lit- 
ieris." 

This reproof from Pope was not more friendly 
than it was true : Lord Bolingbroke was too well 
acquainted with the forlorn state of that party,- and 
the folly of its conductors, once more to embark in 
their desperate concerns. He now saw that he 
had gone as far towards reinstating himself in the 
full possession of his former honours as the mere 
dint of parts and application could go, and was at 
length experimentally convinced, that the decree 
was absolutely irreversible, and the door of the 
House of Lords finally shut against him. He 
therefore, at Pope's suggestion, retired merely to 
be at leisure from the broils of opposition, for the 
calmer pleasures of philosophy. Thus the decline 
of his life, though less brilliant, became more ami- 
able ; and even his happiness was improved by age, 
which had rendered his passions more moderate, 
and his wishes more attainable. 

But he was far from suffering even in solitude his 
hours to glide away in torpid inactivity. That ac- 
tive, restless disposition still continued to actuate his 
pursuits ; and having lost the season for gaining 
power over his contemporaries, he was now re- 
solved upon acquiring fame from posterity. He 
had not been long in his retreat near Fontaine- 
bleau, when he began a course of " Letters on the' 
study and use of history, for the use of a young 
nobleman." In these he does not follow the 
methods of St. Real and others who have treat- 
ed this subject, who make history the great foun- 
tain of all knowledge ; he very wisely confines its 
benefits, and supposes them rather to consist in 
deducing general maxims from particular facts, 
than in illustrating maxims by the application of 
historical passages. In mentioning ecclesiastical 
histor}^, he gives his opinion very freely upon the 
subject of the divine original of the sacred books, 
which he supposes lo have no such foundation. 
This new system of thinking, wHch he had always 
propagated in conversation, and which he now be 
gan to adopt in his more laboured compositions, 



LIFE OP HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



421 



seemed no way supported either by his acuteness 
or his learning. He began to reflect seriously on 
these subjects too late in life, and to suppose those 
objections very new and unanswerable which had 
been already confuted by thousa'nds. "LordBo- 
lingbroke," says Pope, in one of his letters, " is 
above trifling ; when he writes of any thing in this 
world, he is more than mortal. If ever he trifles, it 
must be when he turns divine." 

In the mean time, as it was evident that a man 
of his active ambition, in choosing retirement when 
no longer able to lead in public, must be liable to 
ridicule in resuming a resigned philosophical air, in 
order to obviate the censure, he addressed a letter 
to Lord Bathurst upon the true use of retirement 
and study : in which he shows himself still able 
and willing to undertake the cause of his country, 
whenever its distresses should require his exertion. 
" I have," says he, " renounced neither my coun- 
try nor my friends ; and by my friends, I mean all 
those, and those alone, who are such to their coun- 
try. In their prosperity they shall endeavour to 
hear of me ; in their distress always. In that re- 
treat wherein the remainder of my days shall be 
spent, I may be of some use to them, since even 
thence I may advise, exhort, and warn them." 
Bent upon this pursuit only, and having now ex- 
changed the gay statesman for the grave philoso- 
pher, he shone forth with distinguished lustre. 
His conversation took a diiferent turn from what 
had been usual with him ; and as we are assured 
by Lord Orrery, who knew him, it united the 
wisdom of Socrates, the dignity and ease of Phny, 
and the wit of Horace. 

Yet still amid his resolutions to turn himself 
from politics, and to give himself up entirely to the 
calls of philosophy, he could not resist embarking 
once more in the debates of his country ; and com- 
ing back from France, settled at Battersea, an old 
seat which was his father's and had been long in 
the possession of the family. He supposed he saw 
an impending calamity, and though it was not in 
his power to remove, he thought it his duty to re- 
'tard its fall. To redeem or save the nation from 
perdition, he thought impossible, since national 
corruptions were to be purged by national calami- 
ties ; but he was resolved to lend his feeble assist- 
ance to stem the torrent that was pouring in. With 
this spirit he wrote that excellent piece, which is 
entitled, " The Idea of a Patriot King ;" in which 
he describes a monarch uninfluenced by part}^, 
leaning to the suggestions neither of whigs nor 
tories, but equally the friend and the father of all. 
Some time after, in the year 1749| after the con- 
clusion of the peace two years before, the measures 
taken by the administration seemed not to have 
been repugnant to his notions of political prudence 
for that juncture ; in that year he wrote his last 
production, containing reflections on the then state 



of the nation, principally vidth the regard to her 
taxes and debts, and on the causes and consequen- 
ces of them. This undertaking was left unfinish- 
ed, for death snatched the pen from the hand of 
the writer. 

Having passed the latter part of his life in digni- 
t}' and splendour, his rational faculties improved by 
reflection, and his ambition kept under by disap- 
pointment, his whole aim seemed to have been ta 
leave the stage of life, on which he had acted such 
various parts, with applause. He had long wished 
to fetch his bi'eath at Battersea, the place where he 
was born; and fortune, that had through life 
seemed to trace all his aims, at last indulged him 
in this. He had long been troubled with a can- 
cer in his cheek, by which excruciating disease he 
died on the verge of fourscore years of age. He 
was consonant with himself to the last ; and those 
principles which he had all along avowed, he con- 
firmed with his dying breath, having given orders 
that none of the clergy should be permitted to trou- 
ble him in his latest moments. 

His body was interred in Battersea church with 
those of his .ancestors ; and a marble monument 
erected to his memory, with the following excellent 
inscription : 

HERE LIES 

HENRY ST. JOHN, 

IN THE REIGN OF atTEEN ANNE 

SECRETARY OP WAR, SECRETARY OF STATE, 

AND VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE ; 

IN THE DAYS OF KING GEORGE I. AND 

KING GEORGE II. 

SOMETHING MORE AND BETTER. 

HIS ATTACHMENT TO aUEEN ANNE EXPOSED 

HIM TO A LONG AND SEVERE PERSECUTION ; 

HE BORE IT WITH FIRMNESS OF MIND ; HE 

PASSED THE LATTER PART OP HIS TIME AT HOME, 

THE ENEMY OF NO NATIONAL PARTY, 

THE FRIEND OF NO PACTION ; 

DISTINGUISHED (UNDER THE CLOUD OP A 

PROSCRIPTION, WHICH HAD NOT BEEN ENTIRELY 

TAKEN off) by ZEAL TO MAINTAIN 

THE LIBERTY, AND TO RESTORE THE ANCIENT 

PROSPERITY OF GREAT BRITAIN. 

HE DIED THE 12tH OP DECEMUEiR, 1751, 

AGED 79. 

In this manner lived and died Lord Bolingbroke, 
ever active, never depressed, ever pursuing fortune, 
and as constantly disappointed by her. In what- 
ever light we view his character, we shall find him 
an object rather properer for our wonder than our 
imitation, more to be feared than esteemed, and 
gaining our admiration without our love. His am- 
bition ever aimed at the summit of power, and no- 
thing seemed capable of satisfying his immoderate 
desires, but the liberty of governing all things with- 



422 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



out a rival. With as much ambition, as great 
abiUties, and more acquired knowledge than Cassar, 
he wanted only his courage to be as successful: 
but the schemes his head dictated his heart often 
refused to execute ; and he lost the ability to per- 
form just when the great occasion called for all his 
efforts to engage. 

The same ambition that prompted him to be a 
politician, actuated him as a philosopher. His 
aims were equally great and extensive in both ca- 
pacities : unwilling to submit to any in the one, or 
any authority in the other, he entered the fields of 
science with a thorough contempt of all that had 
been established before him, and seemed willing to 
think every thing wrong, that he might show his 
faculty in the reformation. It might have been 
better for his quiet as a man, if he had been content 
to act a subordinate character in the state ; and it 
had certainly been better for his memory as a writer, 
if he had aimed at doing less than he attempted. 
Wisdom in morals, hke every other art or science, 
is an accumulation that numbers have contributed 
to increase ; and it is not for one single man to pre- 
tend, that he can add more to the heap than the 
thousands that have gone before him. Such innova- 
tions more frequently retard than promote know- 
ledge; their maxims are more agreeable to the read- 
er, by having the gloss of novelty to recommend 
them, than those which are trite, only because they 
are true. Such men are therefore followed at first 
with avidity, nor is it till some time that their dis- 
ciples begin to find their error. They often, 
though too late, perceive that they have been fol- 
lowing a speculative inquiry, while they have been 
leaving a practical good : and while they have been 
practising the arts of doubting, they have been 
losing all firmness of principle, which might tend 
■to establish the rectitude of their private conduct. 
As a moralist, therefore. Lord Bolingbroke, by 
having endeavoured at too much, seems to have 
done nothing ; but as a political writer, few can 
equal, and none can exceed him. As he was a 
practical politician, his writings are less filled with 
those speculative illusions, which are the result of 
solitude and seclusion. He wrote them with a 
certainty of their being opposed, sifted, examined, 
and reviled ; he therefore took care to build them 
of such materials as could not be easily overthrown : 
they prevailed at the times in which they were 
written, they still continue to the admiration of the 
present age, and will probably last for ever. 



THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE LATE 
RIGHT HON. HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD TISCOUNT 
BOLINGBROKE. 

In the name of God, whom I humbly adore, to 
whom I offer up perpetual thanksgiving, and to the 
order of whose providence I am cheerfully resign- 



ed : this is the Last Will and Testament of me, 
Henry St. John, in the reign of Q,ueen Anne, and 
by lier grace and favour, Viscount Bolingbroke. 
After more than thirty years' proscription, and 
after the immense losses I have sustained by un- 
expected events in the course of it; by the injustice 
and treachery of persons nearest to me ; by the negli- 
gence of friends, and by the infidelity of servants ; 
as my fortune is so reduced at this time, that it is 
impossible for me to make such disposition, and to 
give such ample legacies as I always intended, I 
content therefore to give as follows : 

My debts, and the expenses of my burial in a 
decent and private manner at Battersea, in the 
vault where my last wife hes, being first paid, I 
give to William Chetwynd, of Stafford, Esq., and 
Joseph Taylor, of the Inner-Temple, London, 
Esq., my two assured friends, each of them one 
hundred guineas, to be laid out by them, as to each 
of them shall seem best, in some memorial, as the 
legacy of their departed friend; and I constitute 
them executors of this my will. The diamond ring 
which I wear upon my finger, I give to my old and 
long approved friend the Marquis of Matignon, 
and after his decease, to his son the Count de Gace, 
that I may be kept in the remembrance of a family 
whom I love and honour above all others. 

Item, I give to my said executors the sum of four 
hundred pounds in trust, to place out the same in 
some of the public funds, or government securities, 
or any other securities, as they shall think proper, 
and to pay the interest or income thereof to Fran- 
cis Arboneau, my valet de chambre, and Ann, his 
wife, and the survivor of them ; and after the de- 
cease of the survivor of them, if their son John Ar- 
boneau shall be living, and under the age of eighteen 
years, to pay the said interest or income to him, 
until he shall attain his said age, and then to pay 
the principal money, or assign the securities for the 
same, to him ; but if he shall not be living at the 
decease of his father and mother, or shall afterwards 
die before his said age of eighteen years, in either 
of the said cases the said principal sum of four 
hundred pounds, and the securities for the same, 
shall sink into my personal estate, and be account- 
ed part thereof. 

Item, I give to my two servants, Marianne Tri- 
bon, and Remi Charnet, commonly called Picard, 
each one hundred pounds ; and to every other ser- 
vant living with me at the time of my decease, and 
who shall have lived with me two years or longer, 
I give one year's wages more than what shaU be 
due to them at my death. 

And whereas I am the author of the several books 
or tracts following, viz. 

Remarks on the History of England, from the 
Minutes of Humphrey Oldcastle. In twenty-four 
letters. 



LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE. 



423 



A Dissertation upon Parties. In nineteen let- 
ters to Caleb Danvers, Esq. 

The Occasional Writer. Numb. 1, 2, 3. 

The Vision of Camilick. 

An Answer to the London Journal of Decem- 
ber 21, 1728, by John Trot. 

An Answer to the Defence of the Inquiry into 
the Reasons of the Conduct of Great Britain. 

A final Answer to the Remarks on the Crafts- 
man's Vindication. 

All which books or tracts have been printed and 
published ; and I am also the author of 

Four Letters on History, etc. 
which have been privately printed, and not pub- 
lished ; but I have not assigned to any person or 
persons whatsoever the copy, or the liberty of print- 
ing or reprinting any of the said books, or tracts, 
or letters : Now I do hereby, as far as by law I 
can, give and assign to David Mallet, of Putne}', 
in the county of Surrey, Esquire, the copy and 
copies of all and each of the before mentioned books 
or tracts, and letters, and the liberty of reprinting 
the same. I also give to the said David Mallet the 
copy and copies of all the manuscript books, papers, 
and writings, which I have written or composed, 
or shall write or compose, and leave at the time of 
my decease. And I further give to the said David 
Mallet, all the books which, at the time of my de- 
cease, shall be in the room called my library. 

All the rest and residue of my personal estate, 
whatsoever and wheresoever, I give to my said 
executors ; and hereby revoking all former wills, I 
declare this to be my last will and testament. In 
witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and 
seal the twenty-second day of November, in the 
year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and 
fifty-one. 

Henry Saint John, Bolingbroke. 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared 
by the said testator, as and for his last 
will and testament, in the presence of 

Oliver Price. 
Thomas Hall. 

Proved at London, the fifth day of March, 1752, 
before the worshipful Robert Chapman, doctor of 
laws and surrogate, by the oaths of William 
Chetwynd and Joseph Taylor, Esquires, the ex 
ecutors named in the will, to whom administra- 
tion was granted, being first sworn duly to ad- 
minister. 



Blarch, 
1752. 



^VILLIAN LEGARD, 
PETER ST. ELOY, 
HENRY STEVENS, 



Deputy Registers, 



In Dr. Matty's Life of Lord Chesterfield, he 
mentions that the earl had seen Lord Bolingbroke 
for several months labouring under a cruel, and to 
appearance incurable disorder. A cancerous hu- 
mour in his face made a daily progress ; and the 
empirical treatment he submitted to not only 
hastened his end, but also exposed him to the most 
excruciating pain. He saw him, for the last time, 
the day before his tortures began. Though the 
unhappy patient, as well as his friend, did then ex- 
pect that he should recover, and accordingly de- 
sired him not to come again till his cure was com- 
pleted, yet he still took leave of him in a manner 
which showed how much he was affected. He 
embraced the earl with tenderness, and said, "God, 
who placed me here, will do what he pleases with 
me hereafter, and he knows best what to do. May 
he bless you." — And in a letter from Chesterfield 
to a lady of rank at Paris, he says, " I frequently 
see our friend Bolingbroke, but I see him with 
great concern. A humour he has long had in his 
cheek proves to be cancerous, and has made an 
alarming progress of late. Hitherto it is not at- 
tended with pain, which is all he wishes, for as to 
the rest he is resigned. Truly a mind like his, so 
far superior to the generality, would have well de- 
served that nature should have made an effort in 
his favour as to the body, and given him an un- 
common share of health and duration." 

The last scene is thus lamented, in a letter to 
the same lady : — Are you not greatly shocked, but 
I am sure you are, at the dreadful death of our 
friend Bolingbroke? The remedy has hastened his 
death, against which there was no remedy, for his 
cancer was not topical, but universal, and had so in- 
fected the whole mass of his blood, as to be incur- 
able. What I most lament is, that the medicines 
put him to exquisite pain ; an evil I dread much 
more than death, both for my friends and myself. 
I lose a warm, an amiable, and instructive friend. 
I saw him a fortnight before his death, when he 
depended upon a cure, and so did I ; and he de- 
sired I would not come any more till he was quite 
well, which he expected would be in ten or twelve 
da3's. The next day the great pains came on, and 
never left him till within two days of his death, 
during which he lay insensible. Vs^hat a man ! 
what extensive knowledge ! what a memory ! what 
eloquence ! His passions, which were strong, were 
injurious to the delicacy of his sentiments ; they 
were apt to be confounded together, and often wil- 
fully. The world will do him more justice now 
than in his lifetime." 



lilSl 31 



ON THE MOST INTERESTING AND ENTERTAINING SUBJECTS. 

[first printed in 1759.] 



THE BEE, No. I. 



Saturday, October 6, 1759. 



INTRODUCTION. 

There is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dis- 
mal figure in nature, than a man of real modesty 
who assumes an air of impudence ; who, while his 
heart beats with anxiety, studies ease, and affects 
good-humour. In this situation, however, a pe- 
riodical writer often finds himself, upon his first 
attempt to address the public in form. All his 
power of pleasing is dam.ped by solicitude, and his 
cheerfulness dashed with apprehension. Impressed 
with the terrors of the tribunal before which he is 
going to appear, his natural humour turns to pert- 
ness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute 
vivacity. His first publication draws a crowd ; 
they part dissatisfied ; and the author, never more 
to be indulged with a favourable hearing, is left to 
condemn the indelicacy of his own address, or their 
want of discernment. 

For my part, as I was never distinguished for 
address, and have often even blundered in mak 
ing my bow, such bodings as these had like to 
have totally repressed my ambition. I was at a 
loss whether to give the public specious promises, 
or give none ; whether to be merry or sad on this 
solemn occasion. If I should decline all merit, it 
was too probable the hasty reader might have taken 
me at my word. If, on the other hand, like labour 
ers in the magazine trade, I had, with modest im- 
pudence, humbly presumed to promise an epitome 
of all the good things that ever were said or written, 
this "might have disgusted those readers I most desire 
to please. Had I been merry, I might have been 
censured as vastly loio ; and had I been sorrowful, 



I might have been left to mourn in solitude and si- 
lence : in short, whichever way I turned, nothing 
presented but prospects of terror, despair, chand- 
lers' shops, and waste paper. 

In the debate between fear and ambition, my 
publisher, happening to arrive, interrupted for a 
while my anxiety. Perceiving my embarrassment 
about making my first appearance, he instantly of- 
fered his assistance and advice. " You must 
know, sir," says he, "that the republic of letters is 
at present divided into three classes. One writer, 
for instance, excels at a plan or a title-page, another 
works away the body of the book, and a third is a 
dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not the re- 
sult of any single man's industry, but goes through 
as many hands as a new pin before it is fit for the 
public. I fancy, sir," continues he, " I can pro- 
vide an eminent hand, and upon moderate terms, 
to draw up a promising plan to smooth up our 
readers a little, and pay them as Colonel Charteris 
paid his seraglio, at the rate of three halfpence in 
hand, and three shillings more in promises." 

He was proceeding in his advice, which, how 
ever, I thought proper to decline, by assuring him, 
that as I intended to pursue no fixed method, so it 
was impossible to form any regular plan ; determin- 
ed never to be tedious in order to be logical, 
wherever pleasure presented I was resolved to fol- 
low. Like the Bee, which I had taken for the title 
of my paper, I would rove from flower to flower, 
with seeming inattention, but concealed choice, 
expatiate over all the beauties of the season, and 
make my industry my amusement. 

This reply may also serve as an apology to the 
reader, who expects, before he sits down, a bill of 
his future entertainment. It would be improper to 
pall his curiosity by lessening his surprise, or anti- 
cipate any pleasure I am able to procure him, by 
saying what shall come next. Thus much, how- 



THE BEE. 



435 



ever, he may be assured of, that neither war nor 
scandal shall make any part of it, Homer finely 
imagines his deity turning away with horror from 
the prospect of a field of battle, and seeking tran- 
quillity among a nation noted for peace and sim- 
plicity. Happy, could any effort of mine, but for 
a moment, repress that savage pleasure some men 
find in the daily accounts of human misery ! How 
gladly would I lead them from scenes of blood and 
altercation, to prospects of innocence and ease, 
where every breeze breathes health, and every 
sound is but the echo of tranquillity ! 

But whatever the merit of his intentions may 
be, every writer is now convinced, that he must be 
chiefly indebted to good fortune for finding readers 
willing to allow him any degree of reputation. It 
has been remarked, that almost every character, 
which has excited either attention or praise, has 
owed part of its success to merit, and part to a 
happy concurrence of circumstances in its favour. 
Had Cffisar or Crorav/ell exchanged countries, the 
one might have been a sergeant, and the other an 
exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally 
succeeds more from being happily addressed, than 
from its native poignancy. A bon mot, for in- 
stance, that might be relished at White's, may 
lose all its flavour when delivered at the Cat and 
Bagpipes in St. Giles's. A jest, calculated to 
spread at a gaming-table, may be received with a 
perfect neutrality of face, should it happen to drop 
in a mackerel-boat. We have all seen clunces 
triumph in such companies, when men of real hu- 
mour were disregarded, by a general combination 
in favour of stupidity. To drive the observation 
as far as it will go, should the labours of a writer, 
who designs his performances for readers of a more 
refined appetite, fall into the hands of a devourer 
of compilations, what can he expect but contempt 
and confusion? If his merits are to be determined 
by judges, who estimate the value of a book from 
its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival must acquire 
an easy superiority, who, with persuasive elo- 
quence, promises four extraordinary pages of letter- 
press, or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured 
from nature. 

But to proceed : though I can not promise as 
much entertainment, or as much elegance, as 
others have done, yet the reader may be assured, 
he shall have as much of both as I can. He shall, 
at least, find me alive while I study his entertain- 
ment ; for I solemnly assure him, I was never yet 
possessed of the secret at once of writino- and 
sleeping. 

During the course of this paper, therefore, all 
the wit and learning I have are heartily at his ser- 
vice; which if, after so candid a confession, he 
should, notwithstanding, still find intolerably dull, 



low, or sad stuff, this I protest is more than I 
know. I have a clear conscience, and am entirely 
out of the secret. 

Yet I would not have him, upon the perusal of 
a single paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may 
try a second, which, as there is a studied differ- 
ence in subject and style, may be more suited to 
his taste ; if this also fails, I must refer him to a 
third, or even to a fourth, in case of extremity. 
If he should still continue to be refractory, and 
find me dull to the last, I must inform him, with 
Bays in the Rehearsal, that I think him a very 
odd kind of a fellow, and desire no more of his ac- 
quaintance. 

It is with such reflections as these I endeavour 
to fortify myself against the future contempt or 
neglect of some readers, and am prepared for their 
dislike by mutual recrimination. If such should 
impute dealing neither in battles nor scandal to me 
as a fault, instead of acquiescing in their censure, 
I must beg leave to tell them a story. 

A traveller, in his way to Italy, happening to 
pass at the foot of the Alps, found himself at last 
in a country where the inhabitants had each a 
large excrescence depending from the chin, like 
the pouch of a monkey. This deformity, as it 
was endemic, and the people little used to stran- 
gers, it had been the custom, time immemorial, to 
look upon as the greatest ornament of the human 
visage. Ladies grew toasts from the size of their 
chins ; and none were regarded as pretty fellows, 
but such whose faces were broadest at the bottom. 
It was Sunday, a country church was at hand, 
and our traveller was willing to perform the duties 
of the day. Upon his first appearance at the 
church-door, the eyes of all were naturally fixed 
upon the stranger; but what was their amazement, 
when they found that he actually wanted that em- 
blem of beauty, a pursed chin ! This was a defect 
that not a single creature had sufficient gravity 
(though they were noted for being grave) to with- 
stand. Stifled bursts of laughter, winks and whis- 
pers, circulated from visage to visage, and the pris- 
matic figure of the stranger's face was a fund of 
infinite gaiety ; even the parson, equally remarka- 
ble for his gravity and chin, could hardly refrain 
joining in the good-humour. Our traveller could 
no longer patiently continue an object for defor- 
mity to point at. " Good folks," said he, " I per- 
ceive that I am the unfortunate cause of all this 
good-humour. It is true, I may have faults in 
abundance ; but I shall never be induced to 
reckon my want of a swelled face among the 
number."* 



* Dr. Goldsmith inserted this Introduction, with a few 
trifling alterations, in the volume of Essays he puhUshed in 
the year 1765. 



426 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND WITH 
LIGHTNING. 

Imitated from the Spanish. 

LaMiNE Aeon dextro, capta est Leonida sinistro, 
Et poterat forma vincere uterque Deos. 

Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede puellse ; 
Sic tu coecus amor, sic erit ilia Venus.* 



REMARKS ON OUR THEATRES. 

Odr Theatres are now opened, and all Grub- 
street is preparing its advice to the managers. "We 
shall undoubtedly hear learned disquisitions on 
the structure of one actor's legs, and another's eye- 
brows. We shall be told much of enunciations, 
tones, and attitudes ; and shall have our hghtest 
pleasures commented upon by didactic dulness. 
We shall, it is feared, be told, that Garrick is a 
fine actor ; but then as a manager, so avaricious ! 
That Palmer is a most surprising genius, and Hol- 
land likely to do well in a particular cast of cha- 
'Tacter. We shall have them giving Shuter instruc- 
tions to amuse us by rule, and deploring over the 
ruins of desolated majesty at Covent-Garderi. As 
I love to be advising too, for advice is easily given, 
and bears a show of wisdom and superiority, I 
must be permitted to offer a few observations upon 
our theatres and actors, without, on this trivial 
occasion, throwing my thoughts into the formality 
of method. 

There is something in the deportment of all our 
players infinitely more stiff and formal than among 
the actors of other nations. Their action sits un- 
easy upon them ; for, as the English use very Uttle 
gesture in ordinary conversation, our English-bred 
actors are obliged to supply stage gestures by their 
imagination alone. A French comedian finds 
proper models of action in every company and in 
every coffee-house he enters. An Englishman is 
obliged to take his models from the stage itself ; 
he is obliged to imitate nature from an imitation 
of nature. I know of no set of men more likely 
to be improved by travelling than those of the 
theatrical profession. The inhabitants of the con- 
tinent are less reserved than here ; the}^ may be 
seen through upon a first acquaintance ; such are 
the proper models to draw from; they are at once 
striking, and are found in great abundance. 

Though it would be inexcusable in a comedian 
to add any thing of his own to the poet's dialogue, 
yet, as to action, he is entirely at liberty. By tliis 



' An English Epigram, on the same subject, ie inserted in 
the second volume, p. 110. 



he may show the fertility of his genius, the poig- 
nancy of his humour, and the exactness of his 
judgment : we scarcely see a coxcomb or a fool in 
common life, that has not some peculiar oddity in 
his action. These peculiarities it is not in the 
power of words to represent, and depend solely 
upon the actor. They give a relish to the humour 
of the poet, and make tlie appearance of nature 
more illusive. The Italians, it is true, mask some 
characters, and endeavour to preserve the peculiar 
humour by the make of the mask ; but I have 
seen others still preserve a great fund of humour in 
the face without a mask ; one actor, particularly, 
by a squint which he threw into some characters 
of low life, assumed a look of infinite stolidity. 
This, though upon reflection we might condemn, 
yet immediately upon representation we could not 
avoid being pleased with. To illustrate what I 
have been saying by the plays which I have of 
late gone to see : in the Miser, whicji was played 
a few nights ago at Covent-Garden, Lovegold ap- 
pears through the whole in circumstances of ex- 
aggerated avarice; all the player's action, there- 
fore should conspire with the poet's design, and 
represent him as an epitome of penury. The 
E'rench comedian, in this character, in the midst 
of one of his most violent passions, while he ap- 
pears in an ungovernable rage, feels the demon of 
avarice still upon him, and stoops down to pick up 
a pin, which he quilts into the flap of his coat- 
pocket with great assiduit}^ Two candles are 
lighted up for his wedding ; he flies, and turns one 
of them into the socket : it is, however, lighted up 
again ; he then steals to it, and privately crams it 
into his pocket. The Mock-Doctor was lately 
played at the other house. Here again the come- 
dian had an opportunity of heightening the ridi- 
cule by action. The French player sits in a chair 
with a high back, and then begins to show away 
by talking nonsense, which he would have thought 
Latin by those who he knows do not understand 
a syllable of the matter. At last he grows enthu- 
siastic, enjoys the admiration of the company, tosses 
his legs and arms about, and, in the midst of 
his raptures and vociferation, he and the chair fall 
back together. All this appears dull enough in 
the recital, but the gravity of Cato could not stand 
it in the representation. In short, there is hardly 
a character in comedy to which a player of any 
real humour might not add strokes of vivacity that 
could not fail of applause. But, instead of this, 
we too often see our fine gentlemen do nothing, 
through a whole part, but strut and open their 
snuff-box ; our pretty fellows sit indecently with 
their legs across, and our clowns pull up their 
breeches. These, if once, or even twice repeated, 
might do well enough; but to see them served up 
in every scene, argues the actor almost as barren 
as the character he would expose. 



THE BEE. 



427 



The magnificence of our theatres is far superior 
to any others in Europe, where plays only are act- 
ed. The great care our performers take in painting 
for a part, their exactness in all the minutia; of 
dress, and other little scenical properties, have been 
taken notice of by Ricoboni, a gentleman of Italy, 
who travelled Europe with no other design but to 
remark upon the stage ; but there are several im- 
proprieties still continued, or lately come into 
fashion. As, for instance, spreading a carpet 
punctually at the beginning of the death scence, in 
order to prevent our actors from spoiling their 
clothes ; this immediately apprises us of the tragedy 
to follow ; for laying the cloth is not a more sure 
indication of dinner, than laying the carpet of 
bloody work at Drury-Lane. Our little pages also, 
with unmeaning faces, that bear up the train of a 
weeping princess, and our awkward lords in wait- 
ing, take off much from her distress. Mutes of 
every kind divide our attention, and lessen our 
sensibility ; but here it is entirely ridiculous, as we 
see them seriously employed in doing nothing. If 
we must have dirty-shirted guards upon the thea- 
tres, they should be taught to keep their eyes fixed 
on the actors, and not roll them round upon the 
audience, as if they were ogling the boxes. 

Beauty, methinks, seems a requisite qualifica- 
tion in an actress. This seems scrupulously ob- 
served elsewhere, and, for my part, I could wish 
to see it observed at home. I can never con- 
ceive a hero dying for love of a lady totally destitute 
of beauty. I must think the part mmatural ; for I 
can not bear to hear him call that face angelic, 
where even paint can not hide its wrinkles. I must 
condemn him of stupidity, and the person whom I 
can accuse for want of taste, will seldom become 
the object of my affections or admiration. But if 
this be a defect, what must be the entire perver- 
sion of scenical decorum, when, for instance, we 
see an actress, that might act the Wapping land- 
lady without a bolster, pining in the character of 
Jane Shore, and while unwieldy with fat, en- 
deavouring to convince the audience that she is 
dying with hunger ! 

For the future, then, I could wish that the parts 
of the young or beautiful were given to performers 
of suitable figures; for I nmst own, I could rather 
see the stage filled with agreeable objects, though 
they might sometimes bungle a little, than see it 
crowded with withered or misshapen figures, be 
their emphasis, as I think it is called, ever so proper. 
The first may have the awkward appearance of 
new raised troops ; but in viewing the last, I can- 
not avoid the mortification of fancying myself 
placed in an hospital of invalids. 



THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEP 
TIMIUS. 

Translated from a Byzantine Historian. 

Athens, even long before the decline of the 
Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, 
politeness, and wisdom. The emperors and gene- 
rals, who in these periods of approaching ignorance, 
still felt a passion for science, from time to time add- 
ed to its buildings, or increased its professorships. 
Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number; he 
repaired those schools, which barbarity was suffer- 
ing to fall into decay, and continued those pensions 
to men of learning, which avaricious governors 
had monopolized to themselves. 

In this city, and about this period, Alcander 
and Septimius were fellow-students together. The 
one the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; 
the other the most eloquent speaker in the academic 
grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an ac- 
quaintance, and a similitude of disposition made 
them perfect friends. Their fortunes were nearly 
equal, their studies the same, and they were na- 
tives of the two most celebrated cities in the world ; 
for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from 
Rome. 

In this mutual harmony they lived for some time 
together, when Alcander, after passing the first 
part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, 
thought at length of entering into the busy world, 
and as a step previous to this, placed his affections 
on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia 
showed no dislike to his addresses. The day of 
their intended nuptials was fixed, the previous cere- 
monies were performed, and nothing now remain- 
ed but her being conducted in triumph to the apart- 
ment of the intended bridegroom. 

An exultation in his own happiness, or his be- 
ing unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making 
his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him 
to introduce his mistress to his fellow-student, 
which he did with all the gaiety of a man who 
found himself equally happy in friendship and love. 
But this was an interview fatal to the peace of 
both. Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was 
smitten with an involuntary passion. He used 
every effort, but in vain, to suppress desires at once 
so imprudent and unjust. He retired to his apart- 
ment in inexpressible agony ; and the emotions of 
his mind in a short time became so strong, that 
they brought on a fever, which the physicians 
judged incurable. 

During this illness, Alcander watched him with 
all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mis- 
tress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. 



428 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon 
discovered the cause of their patient's disorder; 
and Alcander, being apprised of their discovery, 
at length extorted a confession from the reluctant 
dying lover. 

It would but delay the narrative to describe the 
conflict between love and friendship in the breast 
of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, 
that the Athenians were at this time arrived to 
such refinement in morals, that every virtue was 
carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own 
feUcity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her 
charms, to the young Roman. They were married 
privately by his connivance; and this unlooked-for 
change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change 
in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. 
In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set 
out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an 
exertion of those talents of which he was so emi- 
nently possessed, he in a few years arrived at the 
highest dignities of the state, and was constituted 
the city judge, or prastor. 

Meanwhile, Alcander not only felt the pain of 
being separated from his friend and mistress, but a 
prosecution was also commenced against him by 
the relations of Hypatia, for his having basely given 
her up, as was suggested, for money. Neither his 
innocence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his 
eloquence in his own defence, was able to with- 
stand the influence of a powerful party. He was 
cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. 
Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appoint- 
ed, his possessions were confiscated, himself strip- 
ped of the habit of freedom, exposed in the market- 
place, and sold as a slave to the highest bidder. 

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, 
Alcander, with some other companions of distress, 
was carried into the region of desolation and ste- 
rility. His stated employment was to follow the 
herds of an imperious master; and his skill in 
hunting was all that was allowed him to supply a 
precarious subsistence. Condemned to hopeless 
servitude, every morning waked him to a renewal 
of famine or toil, and every change of season serv- 
ed but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. No- 
thing but death or flight was left him, and almost 
certain death was the consequence of his attempt- 
ing to fly. After some years of bondage, however, 
an opportunity of escaping offered ; he embraced it 
with ardour, and travelling by night, and lodging 
in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at 
last arrived in Rome. The day of Alcander's ar- 
rival, Septimius sat in the forum administering 
justice; and hither our wanderer came, expecting 
to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged. 
Here he stood the whole day among the crowd, 
watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to 
be taken notice of; but so much was he altered by 
a long succession of hardships, that he passed en- 



tirely without notice ; and in the evening, when he 
was going up to the prator's chair, he was bru- 
tally repulsed byihe attending lictors. The at- 
tention of the poor is generally driven from one 
ungrateful object to another. Night coming en, 
he now found himself under a necessity of seeking 
a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to ap- 
ply. All emaciated and in rags as he was, none 
of the citizens would harbour so much wretched- 
ness, and sleeping in the streets might be attend- 
ed with interruption or danger : in short, he was 
obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs 
without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, 
or despair. 

In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon 
an inverted urn, he forgot liis miseries for a while 
in sleep ; and virtue found, on this flinty couch, 
more ease than down can supply to the guilty. 

It was midnight when two robbers came to make 
tliis cave their retreat, but happening to disagree 
about the division of their plunder, one of them 
stabbed the other to the heart, and left him welter- 
ing in blood at the entrance. In these circum- 
stances he was found next morning, and this natu- 
rally induced a further inquiry. The alarm was 
spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was 
found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and 
accused of robbery and murder. The circum- 
stances against him were strong, and the wretched- 
ness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Mis- 
fortune and he were now so long acquainted, that 
he at last became regardless of life. He detested a 
world where he had found only ingratitude, false- 
hood, and cruelty, and was determined to make no 
defence. Thus, lowering with resolution, he was 
dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of 
Septimius. The proofs were positive against him, 
and he offered nothing in his own vindication ; the 
judge, therefore was proceeding to doom him to a 
most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illu- 
mined by a ray from Heaven, he discovered, 
through all his misery, the features, though dim 
with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. It is 
impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this 
strange occasion ; happy in once more seeing the 
person he most loved on earth, distressed at find- 
ing him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by 
contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and 
falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst in- 
to an agony of distress. The attention of the 
multitude was soon, however, divided by another 
object. The robber who had been really guilty, 
was apprehended selling his plunder, and struck 
with a panic, confessed his crime. He was brought 
bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every 
other person of any partnership in his guilt. Need 
the sequel be related'? Alcander was acquitted, 
shared the friendship and the honours of his friend 
Septimius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, 



THE BEE. 



429 



and left it to be engraved on his tomb, " That no I the care of their horses. If we gently desired 



circumstances are so desperate which Providence 
may not relieve.' 



A LETTER PROM A TRAVELLER. 

Cracow, August 2, 1758. 
My Dear Will, 

You see by the date of my letter that I am arriv- 
ed in Poland. When will my wanderings be at 
an end? When will my restless disposition give me 
leave to enjoy the present hour? When at Lyons, 
I thought all happiness lay beyond the Alps : 
when in Italy, I found myself still in want of some- 
thing, and expected to leave solicitude behind me 
by going into Romelia; and now you find me 
turning back, still expecting ease every where but 
where I am. It is now^ seven years since I saw 
the face of a single creature who cared a farthing 
whether I was dead or alive. Secluded from all 
the comforts of confidence, friendship, or society, 1 
feel the solitude of a hermit, but not his ease. 

The prince of *♦* has taken me in his train, so 
that I am in no danger of starving for this bout. 
The prince's governor is a rude ignorant pedant, 
and his tutor a battered rake; thus, between two 
such characters, you may imagine he is finely in- 
structed. I made some attempts to display all the 
little knowledge I had acquired by reading or ob- 
servation ; but I find myself regarded as an igno- 
rant intruder. The truth is, I shall never be able 
to acquire a power of expressing myself with ease 
in any language but my own ; and, out of my own 
country, the highest character I can ever acquire, 
is that of being a philosophic vagabond. 

When I consider myself in the country which 
was once so formidable in war, and spread terror 
and desolation over the whole Roman empire, I 
can hardly account for the present wretchedness 
and pusillanimity of its inhabitants : a prey to 
every invader; their cities plundered without an 
enemy ; their magistrates seeking redress by com- 
plaints, and not by vigour. Every thing conspires 
to raise my compassion for their miseries, were not 
my thoughts too busily engaged by my own. The 
whole kingdom is in a strange disorder : when our 
equipage, which consists of the prince and thirteen 
attendants, had arrived at some towns, there were 
no conveniences to be found, and we were obliged 
to have girls to conduct us to the next. I have seen 
a woman travel thus on horseback before us for 
thirty miles, and think herself highly paid, and 
make twenty reverences, upon receiving, with ec- 
stacy, about twopence for her trouble. In general, 
we were better served by the women than the men 
on those occasions. The men seemed directed by 
a low sordid interest alone : they seemed mere ma- 
cliines, and all their thoughts were employed in 



them to make more speed, they took not the least 
notice ; kind language was what they had by no 
means been used to. It was proper to speak to 
them in the tones of anger, and sometimes it was 
even necessary to use blows, to excite them to their 
duty. How different these from the common peo- 
ple of England, whom a blow might induce to re 
turn the affront seven fold! These poor people, 
however, from being brought up to vile usage, lose 
all the respect which they should have for them- 
selves. They have contracted a habit of regarding 
constraint as the great rule of their duty. When 
they were treated with mildness, they no longer 
continued to perceive a superiority. They fancied 
themselves our equals, and a continuance of our 
humanity might probably have rendered them in- 
solent: but the imperious tone, menaces and 
blows, at once changed their sensations and their 
ideas ; their ears and shoulders taught their souls 
to shrink back into servitude, from which they had 
for some moments fancied themselves disengaged. 

The enthusiasm of liberty an Englishman feels 
is never so strong, as when presented by such 
prospects as these. I must own, in all my indi- 
gence, it is one of my comforts (perhaps, indeed, it 
is ni}'- only boast,) that I am of that happy coun- 
try; though I scorn to starve there; though I do 
not choose to lead a hfe of wretched dependence, 
or be an object for my former acquaintance to point 
at. While you enjoy all the ease and elegance of 
prudence and virtue, your old friend wanders over 
the world, without a single anchor to hold by, or a 
friend except you to confide in.* 

Yours, etc. 



A SHORT ACCOUNT OP THE LATE 
MR. MAUPERTUIS. 

Mr. Maupertuis lately deceased, was the first 
to whom the English philosophers owed their being 
particularly admired by the rest of Europe. The 
romantic system of Descartes was adapted to the 
taste of the superficial and the indolent ; the foreign 
universities had embraced it with ardour, and such 
are seldom convinced of their errors till all others give 
up such false opinions as untenable. The philoso- 
phy of Newton, and the metaphysics of Locke, ap- 
peared ; but, like all new truths, they were at once 
received with opposition and contempt. The En- 
glish, it is true, studied, understood, and conse- 
quently admired them ; it was very different on the 
continent. Fontenelle, who seemed to preside over 



' Tlie sequel of this correspondence to be continued occa- 
sionally. I sliaU alter nothing either in the style or substance 
of these letters, and the reader may depend on their being 
genuine. 



430 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the republic of letters, unwilling to acknowledge 
that all his life had been spent in erroneous philo- 
sophy, joined in the universal disapprobation, and 
the English philosophers seemed entirely un- 
known. 

Maupertuis, however, made them his study; he 
thought he might oppose the physics of his coun- 
try, and yet still be a good citizen ; he defended our 
countrymen, wrote in their favour, and at last, as 
he had truth on his side, carried his cause. Almost 
all the learning of the English, till very lately, was 
conveyed in the language of France. The writings 
of Maupertuis spread the reputation of his master, 
Newton, and, by a happy fortune, have united his 
fame with that of our human prodigy. 

The first of his performances, openly, in vindica- 
tion of the Newtonian system, is his treatise, en- 
titled, Sur la figure des Astres, if I remember 
right ; a work at once expressive of a deep geometri- 
cal knowledge, and the most happy manner of de- 
livering abstruse science with ease. This met with 
violent opposition from a people, though fond of 
novelty in every thing else, yet, however, in mat- 
ters of science, attached to ancient opinions with 
bigotry. As the old and obstinate fell away, the 
youth of Prance embraced the new opinions, and 
now seem more eager to defend Newton than even 
his countrymen. 

The oddity of character which great men are 
sometimes remarkable for, Maupertuis was not 
entirely free from. If we can believe Voltaire, he 
once attempted to castrate himself; but whether 
this be true or no, it is certain, he was extremely 
whimsical. Though born to a large fortune, when 
employed in mathematical inquiries, he disregarded 
his person to such a degree, and loved retirement 
so much, that he has been more than once put on 
the list of modest beggars by the curates of Paris, 
when he retired to some private quarter of the 
town, in order to enjoy his meditations without in- 
terruption. The character given of him by one 
of Voltaire's antagonists, if it can be depended 
upon, is much to his honour. "You," says this 
writer to Mr. Voltaire, '''were entertained by the 
King of Prussia as a buffoon, but Maupertuis as a 
philosopher." It is certain, that the preference 
which this royal scholar gave to Maupertuis was 
the cause of Voltaire's disagreement with him. 
Voltaire could not bear to see a man whose talents 
he had no great opinion of preferred before him as 
president of the royal academy. His Micromegas 
was designed to ridicule Maupertuis; and probably 
it has brought more disgrace on the author than 
the subject. Whatever absurdities men of letters 
have indulged, and how fantastical soever the 
modes of science have been, their anger is still more 
subject to ridicule. 



THE BEE, No. 11. 



Saturday, October 13, 1759. 

ON DRESS. 

Foreigners observe, that there are no ladies in 
the world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than 
those of England. Our countrywomen have been 
compared to those pictures, where the face is the 
work of a Raphael, but the draperies thrown out 
by some empty pretender, destitute of taste, and 
entirely unacquainted with design. 

If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occa 
sion, that so much beauty, set off with all the ad- 
vantages of dress, would be too powerful an antago- 
nist for the opposite sex, and therefore, it was wise- 
ly ordered that our ladies should want taste, lest 
their admirers should entirely want reason. 

But to confess a truth, I do not find they have a 
greater aversion to fine clothes than the women 
of any other country whatsoever. I can not fancy, 
that a shop-keeper's wife in Cheapside has a greater 
tederness for the fortune of her husband than a 
citizen's wife in Paris ; or that miss in a boarding- 
school is more an economist in dress than ma- 
demoiselle in a nunnery. 

Although Paris may be accounted the soil in 
which almost every fashion takes its rise, its in- 
fluence is never so general there as with us. They 
study there the happy method of uniting grace and 
fashion, and never excuse a woman for being awk- 
wardly dressed, by saying her clothes are made in 
the mode. A French vpoman is a perfect architect 
in dress ; she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes 
the orders ; she never tricks out a squabby Doric 
shape with Corinthian finery; or, to speak without 
metaphor, she conforms to general fashion, only 
when it happens not to be repugnant to private 
beauty. 

Our ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no 
other standard for grace but the run of the town. 
If fashion gives the word, every distinction of 
beauty, complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping 
trains, Prussian bonnets, and trollopees, as like 
each other as if cut from the same piece, level all 
to one standard. The Mall, the gardens, and the 
playhouses, are filled with ladies in uniform, and 
their whole appearance shows as little variety or 
taste, as if their clothes were bespoke by the colo- 
nel of a marching regiment, or fancied by the same 
artist who dresses the three battalions of guards. 

But not only ladies of every shape and com- 
plexion, but of every age too, are possessed of this 
unaccountable passion of dressing in the same 
manner. A lady of no quality can be distinguished 



THE BES. 



461 



from a lady of some quality, only by the redness of 
her hands; and a woman of sixty, masked, might 
easily pass for her grandaughter. I remember, a 
few days ago, to have walked behind a damsel, 
tossed out in all the gaiety of fifteen ; her dress was 
loose, unstudied, and seemed the result of conscious 
beauty. I called up all my poetry on this occasion, 
and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution 
in every folding of her white negligee. I had pre- 
pared my imagination for an angel's face ; but what 
was my mortification to find that the imaginary 
goddess was no other than my cousin Hannah, 
four years older than myself, and I shall be sixty- 
two the twelfth of next November. 

After the transports of our first salute were over, 
I could not avoid running my eye over her whole 
appearance. Her gown was of cambric, cut short 
before, in order to discover a high-heeled shoe, 
which was buckled almost at the toe. Her cap, if 
cap it might be called that cap was none, consisted 
of a few bits of cambric, and flowers of painted 
paper stuck on one side of her head. Her bosom, 
that had felt no hand, but the hand of time, these 
twenty years, rose suing, but in vain, to be press- 
ed. I could, indeed, have wished her more than a 
handkerchief of Paris net to shade her beauties ; 
for, as Tasso says of the rose bud. Quanta si mos- 
tra men tanto e pla bella, I should think her's 
most pleasing when least discovered. 

As my cousin had not put on all this finery for 
nothing, she was at that time sallying out to the 
Park, when I had overtaken her. Perceiving, 
however, that I had on my best wig, she oflired, 
if I would 'squire her there, to send home the foot- 
man. Though I trembled for our reception in 
public, yet I could not with any civility refuse; so, 
to be as gallant as possible, I took her hand in my 
arm, and thus we marched on together. 

When we made our entry at the Park, two an- 
tiquated figures, so polite and so tender as we seem- 
ed to be, soon attracted the eyes of the company. 
As we made our way among crowds who vvere 
out to show their finery as well as we, wherever 
we came, I perceived we brought good-humour in 
our train. The polite could not forbear smiling, 
and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh at our 
grotesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was per- 
fectly conscious of the rectitude of her own ap- 
pearance, attributed all this mirth to the oddity of 
mine ; while I as cordially placed the whole to her 
account. Thus, from being two of the best natured 
creatures alive, before we got half-way up the 
mall, we both began to grow peevish, and, like two 
mice on a string, endeavoured to revenge the im- 
pertinence of others upon ourselves. "I am amazed, 
cousin Jeff'ery," says miss, " that I can never get 
you to dress like a Christian. I knew we should 
have the eyes of the Park upon us, with your great 
wig so frizzed, and yet so beggarly, and your mon- 



strous muff. I hate those odious muffs." I could 
have patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of 
my equipage; but as I had always a peculiar vene- 
ration for my muff, I could not forbear being piqued 
a httle ; and, throwing my eyes with a spiteful air 
on her bosom, "I could heartily wish, madam," 
replied I, "that for your sake my muff was cut in- 
to a tippet." 

As my cousin, by this time, was grown heartily 
ashamed of her gentleman-usher, and as I was 
never very fond of any kind of exhibition myself, 
it was mutually agreed to retire for a while to one 
of the seats, and from that retreat remark on others 
as freely as they had remarked on us. 

When seated, we continued silent for some time, 
employed in very different speculations. I regard- 
ed the whole company, now passing in review be- 
fore me, as drawn out merely for my amusement. 
For my entertainment the beauty had all that 
morning been improving her charms, the beau had 
put on lace, and the young doctor a big wig, mere- 
ly to please me. But quite different were the sen- 
timents of cousin Hannah; she regarded every 
well-dressed woman as a victorious rival, hated 
every face that seemed dressed in good-humour, or 
wore the appearance of greater happiness than her 
own. I perceived her uneasiness, and attempted 
to lessen it, by observing, that there was no com- 
pany in the Park to-day. To this she readily as- 
sented, "and yet," says she, "it is full enough of 
scrubs of one kind or another." My smiling at 
this observation gave her spirits to pursue the bent 
of her inclination, and now she began to exhibit 
her skill in secret history, as she found me disposed 
to listen. "Observe," says she to me, "that old 
woman in tawdry silk, and dressed out even be- 
yond the fashion. That is Miss Biddy Evergreen, 
Miss Biddy, it seems, has money, and as she con- 
siders that money was never so scarce as it is now, 
she seems resolved to keep what she has to herself. 
She is ugly enough you see ; yet I assure you she 
has refused several offers to my own knowledge, 
within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentle- 
men from Ireland, who study the law, two waiting 
captains, a doctor, and a Scotch preacher, who had 
like to have carried her off. All her time is passed 
between sickness and finery. Thus she spends 
the whole week in a close chamber, with no other 
company but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat ; 
and comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday, 
to show her airs, to get new lovers, to catch a new 
cold, and to make new work for the doctor. 

" There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the fat 
lady in the lutestring trollopee. Between you 
and I, she is but a cutler's wife. See how she's 
dressed, as fine as hands and pins can make her, 
while her two marriageable daughters, like hun- 
ters, in stuff gowns, are now taking sixpenny- 
worth of tea at the White-Conduit-House. Odious 



433 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



puss! how she waddles along, with her train two 
yards behind her! She puts me in mind of my 
Lord Bantam's Indian sheep, which are obhged to 
have their monstrous tails trundled along in a go- 
cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband's 
heart to see four yards of good lutestring wearing 
against the ground, like one of his knives on a 
grindstone. To speak my mind, cousin Jeffery, I 
never liked tails ; for suppose a young fellow should 
be rude, and the lady should offer to step back in 
a fright, instead of retiring, she treads upon her 
train, and falls fairly on her back ; and then you 
know, cousin, — her clothes may be spoiled. 

"Ah! Miss Mazzard! I knew we should not 
miss her in the Park ; she in the monstrous Prus- 
sian bonnet. Miss, though so very fine, was bred 
a milliner, and might have had some custom if she 
had minded her business ; but the girl was fond of 
finery, and instead of dressing her customers, laid 
out all her goods in adorning herself. Every new 
gown she put on impaired her credit : she still how 
ever, went on improving her appearance, and les 
sening her little fortune, and is now, you see, be- 
come a belle and a bankrupt." 

My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
were interrupted by the approach of the very lady 
she had been so freely describing. Miss had per- 
ceived her at a distance, and approached to salute 
her. I found, by the warmth of the two ladies' 
protestations, that they had been long intimate 
esteemed friends and acquaintance. Both were so 
pleased at this happy rencounter, that they were 
resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed 
the Park together, and I saw them into a hackney- 
coach at the gate of St. James's. I could not, 
however, help observing, " That they are generally 
most ridiculous themselves, who are apt to see most 
ridicule in others." 



SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO 

CHARLES XII. NOT COMMONLY 

KNOWN. 

Stockholm. 

Sir, 

I CAN NOT resist your solicitations, though it is 
possible I shall be unable to satisfy your curiosity. 
The polite of every country seem to have but one 
character. A gentleman of Sweden differs but 
little, except in trifles, from one of another coun- 
try. It is among the vulgar we are to find those 
distinctions which characterise a people, and from 
them it is that I take my picture of the Swedes. 

Though the Swedes, in general, appear to lan- 
guish under oppression, which often renders others 
wicked, or of malignant dispositions, it has not, how- 
ever, the same influence upon them, as they are 
faithful, civil, and incapable of atrocious crimes, 
Would you believe that, in Sweden, highway 



robberies are not so much as heard of? for my 
part, I have not in the whole country seen a gib- 
bet or a gallows. They pay an infinite respect to 
their ecclesiastics, whom they suppose to be the 
privy counsellors of Providence, who, on their part, 
turn this credulity to their ovm advantage, and 
manage their parishioners as they please. In gene- 
ral, however, they seldom abuse their sovereign 
authority. Hearkened to as oracles, regarded as 
the dispensers of eternal rewards and punish- 
ments, they readily influence their hearers into 
justice, and make them practical philosophers with- 
out the pains of study. 

As to their persons, they are perfectly well 
made, and the men particularly have a very en- 
gaging air. The greatest part of the boys which 
I saw in the country had very white hair. They 
were as beautiful as Cupids, and there was some- 
thing open and entirely happy in their httle chub- 
by faces. The girls, on the contrary, have neither 
such fair, nor such even complexions, and their 
features are much less delicate, which is a circum- 
stance dilTerent from that of almost every other 
country. Besides this, it is observed, that the 
women are generally afflicted with the itch, for 
which Scania is particularly remarkable. I had 
an instance of this in one of the inns on the road. 
The hostess was one of the most beautiful women 
I have ever seen ; she had so fine a complexion, 
that I could not avoid admiring it. But what was 
my surprise, when she opened her bosom in order 
to suckle her child, to perceive that seat of delight 
all covered with this disagreeable temper. The 
careless manner in which she exposed to our eyes 
so disgusting an object, sufficiently testifies that 
they regard it as no extraordinary malady, and 
seem to take no pains to conceal it. Such are the 
remarks, which propably you may think trifling 
enough, I have made in my journey to Stockholm, 
which, to take it all together, is a large, beautiful, 
and even a populous city. 

The arsenal appears to me one of its greatest cu- 
riosities ; it is a handsome, spacious building, but 
however, scantily supplied with the implements 
of war. To recompense this defect, they have al- 
most filled it with trophies, and other marks of their 
former military glory. I saw there several cham- 
bers filled with Danish, Saxon, Polish, and Rus- 
sian standards. There was at least enough to 
suflice half a dozen armies ; but new standards are 
more easily made than new armies can be enlisted. 
I saw, beside^ some very rich furniture, and 
some of the crown jewels of great value ; but what 
principally engaged my attention, and touched me 
with passing melancholy, were the bloody, yet pre- 
cious spoils of the two greatest heroes the North 
ever produced. What I mean are the clothes in 
which the great Gustavus Adolphus, and the intre- 
pid Charles XII., died, by a fate not unusual to 



THE BEE. 



433 



kings. The first, if I remember, is a sort of a buff 
waistcoat, made antique fashion, very plain, and 
without the least ornaments; the second, which 
was even more remarkable, consisted only of a 
coarse blue cloth coat, a large hat of less value, a 
shirt of coarse linen, large boots, and buff gloves 
made to cover a great part of the arm. His saddle, 
his pistols, and his sword, have nothing in them 
remarkable ; the meanest soldier was in this respect 
no way inferior to his gallant monarch. I shall 
use this opportunity to give you some particulars 
of the life of a man already so well known, which 
I had from persons who knew him when a child, 
and who now, by a fate not unusual to courtiers, 
spend a life of poverty and retirement, and talk 
over in raptures all the actions of their old victo- 
rious king, companion, and master. 

Courage and inflexible constancy formed the ba- 
sis of this monarch's character. In his tenderest 
years he gave instances of both. When he was 
yet scarcely seven years old, being at dinner with 
the queen his mother, intending to give a bit of 
bread to a great dog he was fond of, this hungry 
animal snapped too greedily at the morsel, and bit 
his hand in a terrible manner. The wound bled 
copiously, but our young hero, without offering to 
cry, or taking the least notice of his misfortune, 
endeavoured to conceal what had happened, lest 
his dog should be brought into trouble, and wrap- 
ped his bloody hand in the napkin. The queen, 
perceiving that he did not eat, asked him the reason. 
Hecontented himself with replving, that he thanked 
her, he was not hungry. They thought he was taken 
ill, and so repeated their solicitations ; but all was in 
vain, though the poor child was already grown 
pale with the loss of blood. An officer who at- 
tended at table at last perceived it ; for Charles 
would sooner have died than betrayed his dog, who 
he knew intended no injury. 

At another time, when in the small-pox, and his 
case appeared dangerous, he grew one day very 
uneasy iu his bed, and a gentleman who watched 
him, desirous of covering him up close, received 
from the patient a violent box on his ear. Some 
hours after, observing the prince more calm, he 
entreated to know how he had incurred his dis- 
pleasure, or what he had done to have merited a 
blow. A blow, replied Charles, I don't remember 
any thing of it ; I remember, indeed, that I thought 
myself in the battle of Arbela, fighting for Darius, 
where I gave Alexander a blow which brought him 
to the ground. 

What great effects might not these two qualities 
of courage and constancy have produced, had they 
at first received a just direction. Charles, with 
proper instructions, thus naturally disposed, would 
have been the delight and the glory of his age. 
Happy those princes who are educated by men 
who are at once virtuous and wise, and have been 
38 



for some time in the school of aflliction ; who 
weigh happiness against glory, and teach their roy- 
al pupils the real value of fame ; who are ever 
showing the superior dignity of man to that of 
royalty : that a peasant who does his duty is a no- 
bler character than a king of even middling repu- 
tation. Happy, I say, were princes, could such / 
men be found to instruct them ; but those to whom 
such an education is generally intrusted, are men 
who themselves have acted in a sphere too high to 
know mankind. Puffed up themselves with the 
ideas of false grandeu", and measuring merit by 
adventitious circumstances of greatness, they gene- 
rally communicate those fatal prejudices to their 
pupils, confirm their pride by adulation, or increase 
their ignorance by teaching them to despise that 
wisdom which is found among the poor. 

But not to moralize when I only intend a story, 
what is related of the journeys of this prince is no 
less astonishing. He has sometimes been on 
horseback for four-and-twenty hours successively, 
and thus traversed the greatest part of his Idng- 
dom. At last none of his officers were found ca- 
pable of following him ; he thus consequently 
rode the greatest part of his journeys quite alone, 
without taking a moment's repose, and without 
any other subsistence but a bit of bread. In one 
of these rapid courses he underwent an adventure 
singular enough. Riding thus post one day, all 
alone, he had the misfortune to have his horse fall 
dead under him. This might have embarrassed 
an ordinary man, but it gave Charles no sort of 
uneasiness. Sure of finding another horse, but 
not equally so of meeting with a good saddle and 
pistols, he ungirds his horse, claps the whole equi- 
page on his own back, and thus accoutred marches 
on to the next inn, which by good fortune was not 
far off. Entering the stable, he here found a horse 
entirely to his mind ; so, without further ceremony, 
he clapped on his saddle and housing with great 
composure, and was just going to mount, when 
the gentleman who owned the horse was apprised 
of a stranger's going to steal his property out of 
the stable. Upon asking the king, whom he had 
never seen, bluntly, how he presumed to meddle 
with his horse, Charles coolly replied, squeezing in 
his lips, which was his usual custom, that he took 
the horse because he wanted one; for you see, 
continued he, if I have none, I shall be obliged to 
carry the saddle myself This answer did not 
seem at all satisfactory to the gentleman, who in- 
stantly drew his sword. In this the king was not 
much behind-hand with him, and to it they were 
going, when the guards by this time came up, and 
testified that surprise which was natural to see 
arms in the hand of a subject against his king. 
Imagine whether the gentleman was less surpris- 
ed than they at his unpremeditated disobedience. 
His astonishment, however, was soon dissipated by 



434 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the king, who, taking him by the hand, assured 
him he was a brave fellow, and himself would 
take care he should be provided for. This pro- 
mise was afterwards fulfilled, and I have been as- 
sured the king made him a captain. 



HAPPINESS, IN A GREAT MEASURE, 
DEPENDENT ON CONSTITUTION. 

When I reflect on the unambitious retirement 
in which I passed the earlier part of my life in the 
country, I can not avoid feeling some pain in think- 
ing that those happy days are never to return. In 
that retreat all nature seemed capable of affording 
pleasure : I then made no refinements on happi- 
ness, but could be pleased with the most awkward 
efforts of rustic mirth ; thought cross-purposes the 
highest stretch of human wit, and questions and 
commands the most rational amusement for spend- 
ing the evening. Happy could so charming an 
illusion still continue ! 1 find age and knowledge 
only contribute to sour our dispositions. My pre- 
sent enjoyments may be more refined, but they are 
infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure Garrick 
gives can no way compare to that I have received 
from a country wag, who imitated a quaker's ser- 
mon. The music of Matei is dissonance to what 
I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears 
with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or 
the cruelty of Barbara Allen. 

Writers of every age have endeavoured to show 
that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offer- 
ed for our amusement. If the soul be happily dis- 
posed, every thing becomes a subject of entertain- 
ment, and distress will almost want a name. 
Every occurrence passes in review like the figures 
of a procession : some may be awkward, others 
ill-dressed, but none but a fool is for this enraged 
with the master of the ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave in a forti- 
fication in Flanders, who appeared no way touch- 
ed with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, 
and chained ; obliged to toil from the appearance 
of day till nightfall, and condemned to this for life ; 
yet, with all these circumstances of apparent 
wretchedness, he sung, would have danced, but 
that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, 
happiest man of all the garrison. What a prac- 
tical philosopher was here ! a happy constitution 
supplied philosophy, and though seemingly desti- 
tute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading 
or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy 
land around him. Every thing furnished him 
with an opportunity of mirth ; and though some 
thought him from his insensibility a fool, he was 
such an idiot as philosophers might wish in vain 
to iinitate. 



They who, like him, can place themselves on 
that side of the world, in which every thing ap- 
pears in a ridiculous or pleasing light, will find 
something in every occurrence to excite their good 
humour. The most calamitous events, either to 
themselves or others, can bring no new affliction ; 
the whole world is to them a theatre, on which 
comedies only are acted. All the bustle of hero- 
ism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to height- 
en the absurdity of the scene, and make the hu- 
mour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little 
anguish at their own distress, or the complaints 
of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in 
black, feels sorrow at a funeral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Car- 
dinal de Retz possessed this happiness of temper 
in the highest degree. As he was a man of gal- 
lantr)', and despised all that wore the pedantic ap- 
pearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to 
be sold he was generally foremost to raise the auc- 
tion. Being a universal admirer of the fair sex, 
when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in 
love with another, from whom he expected a more 
favourable reception ; if she too rejected bis ad- 
dresses, he never thought of retiring into deserts, 
or pining in hopeless distress : he persuaded him- 
self, that instead of loving the lady, he only fan- 
cied he had loved her, and so all was well again. 
When fortune wore her angriest look, when he at 
last fell into the power of his most deadly enemy, 
Cardinal Mazarine, and was confined a close pri- 
soner in the castle of Vincennes, he never attempt- 
ed to support his distress by wisdom or philoso- 
phy, for he pretended to neither. He laughed at 
himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely 
pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of 
distress, though secluded from his friends, though 
denied all the amusements, and even the conve- 
niences of life, teased every hour by the imperti- 
nence of wretches who were employed to guard 
him, he still retained his good-humour, laughed at 
all their little spite, and carried the jest so far as to 
be revenged, by writing the life of his gaoler. 

All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn 
or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal's ex- 
ample will instruct us to be merry in circumstances 
of the highest affliction. It matters not whether 
our good-humour be construed by others into in- 
sensibility, or even idiotism ; it is happiness to our- 
selves, and none but a fool would measure his satis- 
faction by what the world thinks of it. 

Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly 
fellows I ever knew. He was of the number of 
those good-natured creatures that are said to do no 
harm to any but themselves. Whenever Dick fell 
into any misery, he usually called it seeing life. 
If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket 
picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imi- 
itating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the 



THE BEE. 



435 



more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came 
amiss to Dick. His inattention to money matters 
had incensed his father to such a degree, that all 
the intercession of friends in his favour was fruit- 
less. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
The whole family, and Dick among the number, 
gathered round him. "I leave my second son An- 
drew," said the expiring miser, "my whole estate, 
and desire him to be frugal." Andrew, in a sor- 
rowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, " prayed 
Heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it 
himself." — "I recommend Simon, my third son, 
to the care of his elder brother, and leave him be- 
side four thousand pounds." — "Ah! father," cried 
Simon (in great affliction to be sure), " may Hea- 
ven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!" 
At last, turning to poor Dick, " As for you, you 
have always been a sad dog, you'll never come to 
good, you'll never be rich ; I'll leave you a shilling 
to buy a halter." — " Ah ! father," cries Dick, with- 
out any emotion, " may Heaven give you life and 
health to enjoy it yourself!" This was all the 
trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless 
imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an 
uncle recompensed the neglect of a father; and 
Dick is not only excessively good-humoured, but 
competently rich. 

The world, in short, may cry out at a bankrupt 
who appears at a ball ; at an author, who laughs 
at the public which pronounces him a dunce ; at a 
general, who smiles at the reproach of the vulgar ; 
or the lady who keeps her good-humour in spite 
of scandal ; but such is the wisest behaviour they 
can possibly assume. It is certainly a better way 
to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to take up 
the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it : by 
the first method we forget our miseries, by the last 
we only conceal them from others. By struggling 
with misfortunes, we are sure to receive some 
wounds in the conflict : the only method to come 
off victorious, is by running away. 



ON OUR THEATRES. 

Mademoiselle Claroin, a celebrated actress 
at Paris, seems to me the most perfect female figure 
I have ever seen upon any stage. Not perhaps 
that nature has been more liberal of personal beauty 
to her, than some to be seen upon our theatres at 
home. There are actresses here who have as much 
of what connoisseurs call statuary grace, by which 
is meant elegance unconnected with motion, as 
she ; but they all fall infinitely short of her, when 
the soul comes to give expression to the limbs, and 
animates every feature. 

Her first appearance is excessively engaging; 
she never comes in staring round upon the com- 
pany, as if she intended to count the benefits of the 



house, or at least to see, as well as be seen. Her 
eyes are always, at first, intently fixed upon the 
persons of the drama, and she lifts them by de- 
grees, with enchanting diffidence, upon the spec- 
tators. Her first speech, or at least the first part 
of it, is delivered with scarcely any motion of 
the arm ; her hands and her tongue never set out 
together; but the one prepares us for the other. 
She sometimes begins with a mute eloquent atti- 
tude ; but never goes forward all at once with hands, 
eyes, head, and voice. This observation, though 
it may appear of no i.nportance, should certainly 
be adverted to ; nor do I see any One performer 
(Garrick only excepted) among us, that is not in 
this particular apt to oflTend. By this simple be- 
ginning, she gives herself a power of rising in the 
passion of the scene. As she proceeds, every ges- 
ture, every look, acquires new violence, till at last 
transported, she fills the whole vehemence of the 
part, and all the idea of the poet. 

Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and 
then drawn in again, as with the singing women 
at Saddler's Wells ; they are employed with grace- 
ful variety, and every moment please with new and 
unexpected eloquence. Add to this, that their mo- 
tion is generally from the shoulder ; she never 
flourishes her hands while the upper part of her 
arm is motionless, nor has she the ridiculous ap- 
pearance, as if her elbows were pinned to her hips. 

But of all the cautions to be given to our rising 
actresses, I would particularly recommend it to 
them never to take notice of the audience, upon 
any occasion whatsoever ; let the spectators applaud 
never so loudly, their praises should pass, except 
at the end of the epilogue, with seeming inatten- 
tion. I can never pardon a lady on the stage, who, 
when she draws the admiration of the whole au- 
dience, turns about to make them a low courtesy 
for their applause. Such a figure no longer con- 
tinues Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Gib- 
ber. Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a-year 
takes his shilling's-worth at Drury-Lane, in order 
to be delighted with the figure of a queen, the queen 
of Sheba, for instance, or any other queen ; this 
honest man has no other idea of the great but from 
their superior pride and impertinence; suppose 
such a man placed among the spectators, the first 
figure that appears on the stage is the queen her- 
self, courtesying and cringing to all the company : 
how can he fancy her the haughty favourite of King 
Solomon the wise, who appears actually more sub- 
missive than the wife of his bosom? We are all 
tradesmen of a nicer relish in this respect, and such 
conduct must disgust every spectator, who loves to 
have the illusion of nature strong upon him. 

Yet, while I recommend to our actresses a skiliiil 
attention to gesture, I would not have them study 
it in the looking-glass. This, without some pre- 
caution, will render their action formal; by too 



436 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



great an intimacy with this, they become stiff and 
affected. People seldom improve when they have 
no other model hut themselves to copy after. I re- 
member to have known a notable performer of the 
other sex, who made great use of this flattering 
monitor, and yet was one of the stiftest figures I 
ever saw. I am told his apartment was hung round 
with looking-glasses, that he might see his person 
twenty times reflected upon entering the room; and 
I will make bold to say, he saw twenty very ugly 
fellows whenever he did so. 



THE BEE, No. III. 

Saturday, October 20, 1759. 

ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE. 

The manner in which most writers begin their 
treatises on the use of language, is generally thus : 
" Language has been granted to man, in order to 
discover his wants and necessities, so as to have 
them relieved by society. Whatever we desire, 
whatever we wish, it is but to clothe those desires or 
wishes in words, in order to fruition ; the principal 
use of language, therefore," say they, " is to ex- 
press our wants, so as to receive a speedy redress. " 

Such an account as this may serve to satisfy 
grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but 
men who know the world maintain very contrary 
maxims ; they hold, and I think with some show of 
reason, that he who best knows how to conceal his 
necessity and desires, is the most likely person to 
find redress ; and that the true use of speech is not 
so much to express our wants, as to conceal them. 

When we reflect on the manner in which man- 
kind generally confer their favours, we shall find 
that they who seem to want them least, are the 
very persons who most liberally share them. There 



or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more. 
Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to 
a falling column ; the lower it sinks, the greater 
weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when a 
man has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers 
willing to lend him. Should he ask his friend to 
lend him a hundred pounds, it is possible, from 
the largeness of his demand, he may find credit foi 
twenty ; but should he humbly only sue for a trifle, 
it is two to one whether he might be trusted for 
twopence. A certain young fellow at George's, 
whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a 
guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted 
two hundred, and talked so familiarly of large sums, 
that none could ever think he wanted a small one. 
The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit 
for a new suit from his tailor, always made a pro- 
posal in laced clothes; for he found by experience, 
that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, Mr. 
Lynch had taken an oath against trusting ; or, 
what was every bit as bad, his foreman was out of 
the way, and would not be at home these two days. 
There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, 
except to find pity, and by this means relief; but 
before a poor man opens his mind in such circum- 
stances, he should first consider whether he is con- 
tented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, 
and whether he is wilhng to give up friendship only 
to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are pas- 
sions incompatible with each other, and it is im- 
possible that both can reside in any breast for 
the smallest space, without impairing each other. 
Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure ; 
pity is composed of sorrow and contempt ; the mind 
may for some time fluctuate between them, but 
it never can entertain both together. 

Yet, let it not be thought that I would exclude 
pity from the human mind. There are scarcely 
any who are not, in some degree, possessed of this 
pleasing softness; but it is at best but a short-lived 
passion, and seldom affords distress more than 
transitory assistance : with some it scarcely lasts 



is something so attractive in riches, that the large 

heap generally collects from the smaller ; and the I from the first impulse till the hand can be put into 

poor find as much pleasure in increasing the enor- the pocket ; with others it may continue for twice 



mous mass, as the miser, who owns it, sees happi 
ness in its increase. Nor is there any thing in tl lis 
repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca 
himself allows, that in conferring benefits, the pre- 
sent should always be suited to the dignity of the 
receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, 



that space, and on some extraordinary sensibility I 
have seen it operate for half an hour. But, how- 
ever, last as it will, it generally produces but beg- 
garly effects : and where, from this motive, we give 
a halfpenny, from others we give always pounds. 
In great distress, we sometimes, it is true, feel the 



and are thanked for accepting them. Men of i influence of tenderness strongly ; when the same 
middling stations are obliged to be content with distress solicits a second time, we then feel with 
presents something less ; while the beggar, who j diminished sensibility, but, like the repetition of an 
may be truly said to waitt indeed, is well paid if a ' echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at 
farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. last our sensations lose every mixture of sorrow, 

Every man who has seen the world, and has and degenerate into downright contempt, 
had his ups and downs in life, as the expression ! Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance ; but 
is, must have frequently experienced the truth of he's gone. Jack was bred in a counting-house, 
this doctrine, and must know, that to have much, ' and his father dying just as he was out of his time. 



THE BEE. 



437 



left him a handsome fortune, and many friends to 
advise with. The restraint in which he had been 
brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, 
which some regarded as a habitual prudence, and 
from such considerations, he had every day re- 
peated offers of friendship. Those who had mo- 
ney were ready to offer him their assistance that 
way; and they who had daughters, frequently in 
the warmth of affection advised him to marr)^ Jack, 
however, was in good circumstances ; he wanted 
neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore 
modestly declined their proposals. 

Some errors in the management of his affairs, 
and several losses in trade, soon brought Jack to a 
different way of thinking ; and he at last thought it 
his best way to let his friends know, that their offers 
were at length acceptable. His first address vcas, 
therefore, to a scrivener, who had formerly made him 
frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time 
when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have 
been refused. 

Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old 
friend without any ceremony; and, as a man con- 
fident of not being refused, requested the use of a 
hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then 
had an occasion for money. "And pra}', Mr. 
Spindle," replied the scrivener, " do you want all 
this money?" — "Want it, sir," says the other, "if 
I did not want it, I should not have asked it.'' — 
" [ am sorry for that," says the friend ; " for those 
"who want money when they come to borrow, will 
want money when they should come to pay. , To 
say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now- 
a-days. I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the 
sea, for my part ; and he that has got a little, is a 
fool if he does not keep what he has got." 

Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our ad- 
venturer was resolved to apply to another, whom 
he knew to be the very best friend he had in the 
world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, 
received his proposal with all the affability that 
could be expected from generous friendship. — " Let 
me see, you want a hundred guineas ; and pray, 
dear Jack, would not fifty answer 7" — "If you 
have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented." 
— " Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe 
I have but twenty about me." — " Then I must 
borrow the other thirty from some other friend." 
— "And pray," replied the friend, "would it not 
be the best way to borrow the whole money from 
that other friend, and then one note will serve for 
all, you know 7 Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no cere- 
mony with me at any time ; you know I'm your 
friend, when you choose a bit of dinner or so. 
You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't 
forget to dine with us now and then 1 Your very 
humble servant." 

Distressed, but not discouraged at this treat- 
ment, he was at last resolved to find that assist- 



ance from love, which he could not have from 
friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in 
her own hands, and she had already made all the 
advances that her sex's modesty would permit. 
He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, 
but soon perceived, "No bankrupt ever found the 
fair one kind." Miss Jenny and Master Billy 
Galloon were lately fallen deeply in love with each 
other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it 
would soon be a match. 

Every day now began to strip Jack of his for- 
mer finery ; his clothes flew piece by piece to the 
pawnbrokers ; and he seemed at length equipped 
in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still 
he thought himself secure from starving ; the num- 
berless invitations he had received to dine, even 
after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was, 
therefore, now resolved to accept of a dinner be- 
cause he wanted one ; and in this manner he ac- 
tually lived among his friends a whole week with- 
out being openly affronted. The last place I saw 
poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Gosling's. He 
had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he 
came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair 
without being desired, and talked for some time 
without being attended to. He assured the com- 
pany, that nothing procured so good an appetite as 
a walk to White-Conduit-House, where he had 
been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, 
and praised the figure of the damask, talked of a 
feast where he had been the day before, but that 
the venison was overdone. All this, however, pro- 
cured the poor creature no invitation, and he was 
not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being 
asked; wherefore, finding the gentleman of t-he 
house insensible to all his fetches, he thought pro- 
per, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite by a 
walk in the Park. 

You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, 
whether in rags or lace ; whether in Kent-street or 
the Mall ; whether at Smyrna or St. Giles's ; might 
I advise you as a friend, never seem in want of the 
favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion 
but pity for redress. You may find reUef from 
vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but sel- 
dom from compassion. The very eloquence of a 
poor man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is 
opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to close 
without a petition. 

If then you would ward off the gripe of poverty, 
pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at least 
use you with ceremony. Hear not my advice, but 
that of Offellus. If you be caught dining upon a 
halfpenny porringer of peas soup and potatoes, 
praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. 
You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed 
peas broth for the gravel ; hint that you are not one 
of those who are always making a god of your belly. 
If you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the 



438 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



midst of winter, be the first to remark that stuffs 
are very much worn at Paris. If there be found 
some irreparable defects in any part of your equi- 
page, which can not be concealed by all the arts 
of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, say, 
that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were ever 
very fond of dress. Or if you be a philosopher, 
hint that Plato and Seneca are the tailors you 
choose to employ; assure the company, that men 
ought to be content with a bare covering, since 
what is now so much the pride of some, was for- 
merly our shame. Horace will give you a Latin 
eentence fit for the occasion, 

Toga defendere frigus, 
ftuamvis crassa, queat. 

In short, however caught, do not give up, but as- 
cribe to the frugality of your disposition, what 
others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness 
of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a 
miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem 
poor, is a certain method never to rise. Pride in 
the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous; 
beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity I can ex- 
cuse. 



THE HISTORY OP HYP ASIA. 

Man, when secluded from society, is not a more 
solitary being than the woman who leaves the du- 
ties of her own sex to invade the privileges of ours. 
She seems, in such circumstances, like one in ban- 
ishment; she appears like a neutral being between 
the sexes ; and, though she may have the admira- 
tion of both, she finds true happiness from neither. 
Of all the ladies of antiquity I have read of, none 
was ever more justly celebrated than the beautiful 
Hypasia, the daughter of Leon, the philosopher. 
This most accomplished of women was born at 
Alexandria, in the reign of Theodosius the young- 
er. Nature was never more lavish of its gifts than 
it had been to her, endued as she was with the 
most exalted understanding, and the happiest turn 
to science. Education completed what nature had 
begun, and made her the prodigy not only of her 
age, but the glory of her sex. 

From her father she learned geometry and as 
tronomy; she collected from the conversation and 
schools of the other philosophers, for which Alex- 
andria was at that time famous, the principles of 
the rest of the sciences. 

What can not be conquered by natural penetra 
tion, and a passion for study? The boundless 
knowledge which, at that period of time, was re 
quired to form the character of a philosopher, no 
way discouraged her ; she deUvered herself up to 
the study of Aristotle and Plato, and soon not one 



in all Alexandria understood so perfectly as she all 
the difficulties of these two philosophers. 

But not their systems alone, but those of every 
other sect were quite familiar to her; and to this 
knowledge she added that of poUte learning, and 
the art of oratory. All the learning which it was 
possible for the human mind to contain, being join- 
ed to a most enchanting eloquence, rendered this 
lady the wonder not only of the populace, who 
easily admire, but of philosophers themselves, who 
are seldom fond of admiration. 

The city of Alexandria was every day crowded 
with strangers, who came from all parts of Greece 
and Asia to see and hear her. As for the charms 
of her person, they might not probably have been 
mentioned, did she not join to a beauty the most 
striking, a virtue that might repress the most as- 
suming ; and though in the whole capital, famed 
for charms, there was not one who could equal her 
in beauty ; though in a city, the resort of all the 
learning then existing in the world, there was not 
one who could equal her in Itnowledge; yet, with 
such accomplishments, Hypasia was the most 
modest of her sex. Her reputation for virtue was 
not less than her virtues ; and though in a city di- 
vided between two factions, though visited by the 
wits and the philosophers of the age, calumny never 
dared to suspect her morals, or attempt her charac- 
ter. Both the Christians and the Heathens who 
have transmitted her history and her misfortunes, 
have but one voice, when they speak of her beauty, 
her knowledge, and her virtue. Nay, so much 
harmony reigns in their accounts of this prodigy of 
perfection, that, in spite of the opposition of their 
faith, we should never have been able to judge of 
what religion was Hypasia, were we not informed, 
from other circumstances, that she was a heathen. 
Providence had taken so much pains in forming 
her, that we are almost induced to complain of its 
not having endeavoured to make her a Christian ; 
but from this complaint we are deterred by a thou- 
sand contrary observations, which lead us to rever- 
ence its inscrutable mysteries. 

This great reputation of which she so justly was 
possessed, was at last, however, the occasion of her 
ruin. 

The person who then possessed the patriarchate 
of Alexandria, was equally remarkable for his 
violence, cruelty, and pride. Conducted by an ill- 
grounded zeal for the Christian religion, or, per- 
haps, desirous of augmenting his authority in the 
city, he had long meditated the banishment of the 
Jews. A difference arising between them and the 
Christians with respect to some pubhc games, seem- 
ed to him a proper juncture for putting his ambi- 
tious designs into execution. He found no difficul- 
ty in exciting the people, naturally disposed to re- 
volt. The prefect, who at that time commanded 
the city, interposed on this occasion, and thought 



THE BEE. 



439 



it just to put one of the chief creatures of the patri- 
arch to the torture, in order to discover the first 
promoter of the conspirac}'. The patriarch, en- 
raged at the injustice he tliought offered to his 
character and dignity, and piqued at the protection 
which was offered to the Jews, sent for the chiefs 
of the synagogue, and enjoined them to renounce 
their designs, upon pain of incurring his highest 
displeasure. 

The Jews, far from fearing his menaces, excited 
new tumults, in which several citizens had the mis- 
fortune to fall. The patriarch could no longer con- 
tain : at the head of a numerous body of Christians, 
he flew to the synagogues, which he demolished, 
and drove the Jews from a city, of which they had 
been possessed since the times of Alexander the 
Great. It may be easily imagined, that the pre- 
fect could not behold, without pain, his jurisdiction 
thus insulted, and the city deprived of a number of 
its most industrious inhabitants. 

The affair was therefore brought before the em- 
peror. The patriarch complained of the excesses 
of the Jews, and the prefect of the outrages of the 
patriarch. At this very juncture, five hundred 
monks of mount Nitria, imagining the life of their 
chief to be in danger, and that their religion was 
threatened in his fall, flew into the city with un- 
governable rage, attacked the prefect in the streets, 
and, not content with loading him with reproaches, 
wounded him in several places. 

The citizens had, by this time, notice of the fury 
of the monks ; they, therefore, assembled in a body, 
put the monks to flight, seized on him who had 
been found throwing a stone, and delivered him to 
the prefect, who caused him to be put to death 
without further delay. 

The patriarch immediately ordered the dead 
body, which had been exposed to view, to be taken 
down, procured for it all the pomp and rites of 
burial, and went even so far as himself to pronounce 
the funeral oration, in which he classed a seditious 
monk among the martyrs. This conduct was by 
no means generally approved of; the most moder- 
ate even among the Christians perceived and blamed 
his indiscretion ; but he was now too far advanced 
to retire. He had made several overtures towards a 
reconciliation with the prefect, which not succeed- 
ing, he bore all those an implacable hatred whom he 
imagined to have any hand in traversing his de- 
signs ; but Hypasia was particularly destined to 
ruin. She could not find pardon, as she was known 
to have a most refined friendship for the prefect ; 
wherefore the populace were incited against her. 
Peter, a reader of the principal church, one of those 
vile slaves by which men in power are too frequent- 
ly attended, wretches ever ready to commit any 
crime which they hope may render them agreeable 
to their employer ; this fellow, I say, attended by a 
crowd of villains, waited for Hypasia, as she was 



returning from a visit, at her own door, seized her 
as she was going in, and dragged her to one of the 
churches called Cesarea, where, stripping her in a 
most inhuman manner, they exercised the most in- 
human cruelties upon her, cut her into pieces, and 
burnt her remains to ashes. Such was the end of 
Hypasia, the glory of her own sex, and the aston- 
ishment of ours. 



ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY. 

Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the 
whole world admires. His generosity is such, that 
it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the 
trouble and the confusion of a request. His liber- 
ality also does not oblige more by its greatness than 
by his inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes he 
even distributes his bounties to strangers, and has 
been known to do good ofiices to those who pro- 
fessed themselves his enemies. All the world are 
unanimous in the praise of his generosity : there is 
only one sort of people who complain of his con- 
duct — Lysippus does not pay his debts. 

It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct 
so seemingly incompatible with itself There is 
greatness in being generous, and there is only 
simple j ustice in satisfying his creditors. Generosi- 
ty is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. 
There is in it something of what we admire in he- 
roes, and praise with a degree of rapture. Justice, 
on the contrary, is a mere mechanic virtue, fit only 
for tradesmen, and what is practised by every 
broker in Change Allej'. 

In paying his debts, a man barely does his duty, 
and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. 
Should Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would 
be at the pains of telling it to the world? Generosi- 
ty is a virtue of a very different complexion. It 
is raised above duty, and from its elevation attracts 
the attention, and the praises, of us little mortals 
below. 

In this manner do men generally reason upon 
justice and generosity. The first is despised, 
though a virtue essential to the good of society ; 
and the other attracts our esteem, which too fre- 
quently proceeds from an impetuosity of temper, 
rather directed by vanity than reason. Lysippus 
is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, 
and that a distressed acquaintance petitions for the 
same sum. He gives it without hesitating to the 
latter; for he demands as a favour what the former 
requires as a debt. 

Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquaint- 
ed with the import of the word justice : it is com- 
monly believed to consist only in a performance of 
those duties to which the laws of society can oblige 
us. This I allow is sometimes the import of the 
word, and in this sense justice is distinguished 



440 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



from equity ; but there is a justice still more exten- 
sive, and which can be shown to embrace all the 
virtues united. 

Justice may be defined to be that virtue which 
impels us to give to every person what is his due. 
In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends 
the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, 
or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, 
to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, 
if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, 
properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the 
rest have their origin in it. 

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and 
generosity, for instance, are not, in their own na- 
ture, virtues ; and if ever they deserve the title, it 
is owing only to justice, which impels and directs 
them. Without such a moderator, candour might 
become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity 
imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion. 

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by 
justice, is at best indifferent in its nature, and not 
unfrequently even turns to vice. The expenses of 
society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other 
helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent, 
■when not repugnant to a better method of disposing 
of our superfluities ; but they become vicious when 
they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more 
virtuous disposition of our circumstances. 

True generosity is a duty as indispensably ne- 
cessary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a 
rule imposed upon us by reason, which should be 
the sovereign law of a rational being. But this 
generosity does not consist in obeying every im- 
pulse of humanity, in following blind passion for 
our guide, and impairing our circumstances by 
present benefactions, so as to render us incapable 
of future ones. 

Misers are generally characterized as men with- 
out honour or without humanity, who hve only to 
accumulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other 
happiness. They have been described as madmen, 
who, in the midst of abundance, banish every 
pleasure, and make from imaginary wants real ne- 
cessities. But few, very few, correspond to this 
exaggerated picture ; and, perhaps, there is not one 
in whom all these circumstances are found united. 
Instead of this, we find the sober and the industri- 
ous branded by the vain and the idle with this 
odious appellation; men who, by frugality and 
labour, raise themselves above their equals, and 
contribute their share of industry to the common 
stock. 

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well 
were it for society had we more of this character 
among us. In general, these close men are found 
at last the true benefactors of society. With an 
avaricious man we seldom lose in our dealings ; 
but too frequently in our commerce with prodi- 
gality- 



A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went 
for a long time by the name of the Griper. He re- 
fused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, 
and, by a skilful management of his vineyard, had 
the good fortune to acquire immense sums of money. 
The inhabitants of Rheims, who were his fellow- 
citizens, detested him, and the populace, who sel- 
dom love a miser, wherever he went, received him 
with contempt. He still, however, continued his 
former simplicity of life, his amazing and unremit- 
ted frugality. This good man had long perceived 
the wants of the poor in the city, particularly in 
having no water but what they were obliged to buy 
at an advanced price ; wherefore, that whole fortune 
which he had been amassing, he laid out in an 
aqueduct, by which he did the poor more useful 
and lasting service than if he had distributed his 
whole income in charity every day at his door. 

Among men long conversant with books, we too 
frequently find those misplaced virtues of which I 
have been now complaining. We find the studious 
animated with a strong passion for the great vir- 
tues, as they are mistakenly called, and utterly for- 
getful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of 
philosophy are generally rather exhausted on these 
supererogatory duties, than on such as are indis- 
pensably necessary. A man, therefore, who has 
taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, gene- 
rally comes into the world with a heart melting at 
every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced, by 
misplaced liberality, to put himself into the indigent 
circumstances of the persons he relieves. 

1 shall conclude this paper with the advice of 
one of the ancients, to a young man whom he saw 
giving away all his substance to pretended distress. 
"It is possible that the person you relieve may be 
an honest man ; and I know that you who relieve 
him are such. You see, then, by your generosity, 
you only rob a man who is certainly deserving, to 
bestow it on one who may possibly be a rogue ; and 
while you are unjust in rewarding uncertain merit, 
you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself." 



SOME PARTICULARS RELATING TO 
FATHER FREIJO. 

Primus mortales tollere contra 
Est oculos ausus, primusque assirrgere contra. 
Lucr, 

The; Spanish nation has, for many centuries 
past, been remarkable for the grossest ignorance in 
polite literature, especially in point of natural phi- 
losophy ; a science so useful to mankind, that her 
neighbours have ever esteemed it a matter of the 
greatest importance to endeavour, by repeated ex- 
periments, to strike a light out of the chaos in which 
truth seemed to be confounded. Their curiosity 
in this respect was so indifferent, that though they 



THE BEE. 



441 



had discovered new worlds, they were at a loss to 
explain the phenomena of their own, and their 
pride so unaccountable, that they disdained to bor- 
row from others that instruction which their natural 
indolence permitted them not to acquire. 

It gives me, however, a secret satisfaction to be- 
hold an extraordinary genius, now existing in that 
nation, whose studious endeavours seem calcu- 
lated to undeceive the superstitious, and instruct 
the ignorant ; I mean the celebrated Padre Freijo. 
In unravelhng the mysteries of nature and ex- 
plaining physical experiments, he takes an oppor- 
tunity of displaying the concurrence of second 
causes in those very wonders, which the vulgar as 
crihe to supernatural influence. 

An example of this kind happened a few years 
ago in a small town of the kingdom of Valencia 
Passing through at the hour of mass, he alighted 
from his mule, and proceeded to the parish church 
which he found extremely crowded, and there ap 
peared on the faces of the faithful a more than usual 
alacrit3\ The sun it seems, which had been for 
some minutes under a cloud, had begun to shine 
on a large crucifix, that stood in the middle of the 
altar, studded with several precious stones. The 
reflection from these, and from the diamond eyes 
of some silver saints, so dazzled the multitude, that 
they unanimously cried out, A miracle ! a miracle ! 
whilst the priest at the altar, with seeming con- 
sternation, continued his heavenly conversation. 
Padre Freijo soon dissipated the charm, by tying 
his handkerchief round the head of one of the stat- 
ues, for which he was arraigned by the inquisition ; 
whose flames, however, he has had the good for- 
tune hitherto to escape. 



THE BEE No. IV. 



Saturday, October 27, 1759. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 

Were I to measure the merit of my present un- 
dertaking by its success, or the rapidity of its sale, 
I might be led to form conclusions by no means 
favourable to the pride of an author. Should I es- 
timate my fame by its extent, every newspaper and 
magazine would leave me far behind. Their fame 
is diffused in a very wide circle, that of some as far 
as Islington, and some yet farther still ; while mine, 
I sincerely believe, has hardly travelled beyond the 
sound of Bow-bell; and while the works of others 
fly Uke unpinioned swans, I find my own move as 
heavily as a new plucked goose. 

Still, however, I have as much pride as they 
who have ten times as many readers. It is im- 



possible to repeat all the agreeable delusions in 
which a disappointed author is apt to find comfort. 
I conclude, that what my reputation wants in ex- 
tent, is made up by its solidity. Minus juvat Gloria 
lata quam viagna. I have great satisfaction in 
considering the delicacy and discernment of those 
readers 1 have, and in ascribing my want of popu- 
larity to the ignorance or inattention of those I 
have not. All the world may forsake an author, 
but vanity will never forsake him. 

\ et, notwithstanding so sincere a confession, I 
was once induced to show my indignation against 
the public, by discontinuing my endeavours to 
please ; and was bravely resolved, like Raleigh, to 
vex them by burning my manuscript in a passion. 
Upon recollection, however, I considered what set 
or body of people would be displeased at my rash- 
ness. The sun, after so sad an accident, might 
shine next morning as bright as usual ; men might 
laugh and sing the next day, and transact business 
as before, and not a single creature feel any regret 
but myself. 

I reflected upon the story of a minister, who, in 
the reign of Charles II., upon a certain occasion, 
resigned all his posts, and retired into the country 
in a fit of resentment. But as he had not given the 
world entirely up with his ambition, he sent a mes- 
senger to town, to see how the courtiers would bear 
his resignation. Upon the messenger's return he 
was asked, whether there appeared any commotion 
at court? To which he replied. There were very 
great ones. "Ay," says the minister, "I knew 
my friends would make a bustle ; all petitioning the 
king for my restoration, I presume." " No, sir," 
replied the messenger, "they are only petitioning 
his majesty to be put in your place." In the same 
manner, should I retire in indignation, instead of 
having Apollo in mourning, or the Muses in a fit 
of the spleen ; instead of having the learned world 
apostrophizing at my untimely decease, perhaps all 
Grub-street might laugh at my fall, and self-ap- 
proving dignity might never be able to shield me 
from ridicule. In short, I am resolved to write on, 
if it were only to spite them. If the present gene- 
ration will not hear my voice, hearken, O posteri- 
ty, to you I call, and from you I expect redress! 
What rapture will it not give to have the Scaligers, 
Daciers, and Warburtons of future times comment- 
ing with admiration upon every line I now write 
working away those ignorant creatures who offer 
to arraign my merit, with all the virulence of learn- 
ed reproach. Ay, my friends, let them feel it : call 
names, never spare them; they deserve it all, and 
ten times more. I have been told of a critic, who 
was crucified at the command of another to the 
reputation of Homer. That, no doubt, was more 
than poetical justice, and I shall be perfectly con- 
tent if those who criticise me are only clapped in 
the pillory, kept fifteen days upon bread and water 



443 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



and obliged to run the gantlet through Paternoster- 
row. The truth is, I can expect happiness from 
posterity either way. If I write ill, happy in being 
forgotten; if well, happy in being remembered with 
respect. 

Yet, considering things in a prudential light, 
perhaps I was mistaken in designing my paper as 
an agreeable relaxation to the studious, or a help to 
conversation among the gay; instead of addressing 
it to such, I should have written down to the taste 
and apprehension of the many, and sought for re- 
putation on the broad road. Literary fame, I now 
find, like religious, generally begins among the vul- 
gar. As for the polite, they are so very polite as 
never to applaud upon any account. One of these, 
with a face screwed up into affectation, tells you, 
that fools may admire, but men of sense only ap- 
prove. Thus, lest he should rise in rapture at any 
thing new, he keeps down every passion but pride 
and self-importance ; approves with phlegm ; and 
the poor author is damned in the taking a pinch of 
snuff. Another has written a book himself, and 
being condemned for a dunce, he turns a sort of 
king's evidence in criticism, and now becomes the 
terror of every offender. A third, possessed of full- 
grown reputation, shades off every beam of favour 
from those who endeavour to grow beneath him, 
and keeps down that merit, which, but for his in- 
fluence, might rise into equal eminence : while 
others, still worse, peruse old books for their amuse- 
ment, and new books only to condemn ; so that 
the pubUc seem heartily sick of all but the busi- 
ness of the day, and read every thing now with as 
little attention as they examine the faces of the 
passing crowd. 

From these considerations, I was once deter- 
mined to throw off all connexions with taste, and 
fairly address my countrymen in the same engag- 
ing style and manner with other periodical pam- 
phlets, much more in vogue than probably mine 
shall ever be. To effect this, I had thoughts of 
changing the title into that of the Royal Bee, the 
Anti-gallican Bee, or the Bee's Magazine. I 
had laid in a proper stock of popular topics, such 
as encomiums on the King of Prussia, invectives 
against the Glueen of Hungary and the French, 
the necessity of a militia, our undoubted sovereignty 
of the seas, reflections upon the present state of af- 
fairs, a dissertation upon liberty, some seasonable 
thoughts upon the intended bridge of Blackfriars, 
and an address to Britons ; the history of an old 
woman, whose teeth grew three inches long, an 
ode upon our victories, a rebus, an acrostic upon 
Miss Peggy P., and a journal of the weather. All 
this, together with four extraordinary pages of let- 
ter-press, a beautiful map of England, and two 
prints curiously coloured from nature, I fancied 
might touch their very souls. I was actually be- 
ginning an address to the people, when my pride 



at last overcame my prudence, and determined me 
to endeavour to please by the goodness of my en- 
tertainment, rather than by the magnificence of my 
sign. 

The Spectator, and many succeeding essayists, 
frequently inform us of the numerous compliments 
paid them in the course of their lucubrations ; of 
the frequent encouragements they met to inspire 
them with ardour, and increase their eagerness to 
please. I have received my letters as well as they; 
but alas ! not congratulatory ones ; not assuring me 
of success and favour ; but pregnant with bodings 
that might shake even fortitude itself. 

One gentleman assures me, he intends to throw 
away no more threepences in purchasing the Bee; 
and, what is still more dismal, he will not recom- 
mend me as a poor author wanting encouragement 
to his neighbourhood, which, it seems, is very nu- 
merous. Were my soul set upon threepences, 
what anxiety might not such a denunciation pro- 
duce ! But such does not happen to be the present 
motive of publication ; I write partly to show my 
good-nature, and partly to show my vanity; nor 
wall I lay down the pen till I am satisfied one way 
or another. 

Others have disliked the title and the motto of 
my paper ; point oiit a mistake in the one, and as- 
sure me the other has been consigned to dulness 
by anticipation. All this may be true ; but what 
is that to me ? Titles and mottos to books are like 
escutcheons and dignities in the hands of a king. 
The wise sometimes condescend to accept of them ; 
but none but a fool will imagine them of any real 
importance. We ought to depend upon intrinsic 
merit, and not the slender helps of title. Nam 
quce nonfecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voce. 

For my part, I am ever ready to mistrust a pro- 
mising title, and have, at some expense, been in- 
structed not to hearken to the voice of an advertise- 
ment, let it plead never so loudly, or never so long. 
A countryman coming one day to Smithfield, in 
order to take a slice of Bartholomew-fair, found a 
perfect show before every booth. The drummer, 
the fire-eater, the wire-walker, and the salt-box, 
were all employed to invite him in. " Just a-going ; 
the court of the king of Prussia in all his glory : 
pray, gentlemen, walk in and see." From people 
who generously gave so much away, the clown ex- 
pected a monstrous bargain for his money when 
he got in. He steps up, pays his sixpence, the 
curtain is drawn ; when, too late, he finds that he 
had the best part of the show for nothing at the 
door. 



A FLEMISH TRADITION. 

Every country has its traditions, which, either 
too minute, or not suflfiiciently authentic to receive 



THE BEE. 



443 



historical sanction, are handed down among the 
vulgar, and serve at once to instruct and amuse 
them. Of this number, the adventures of Robin 
Hood, the hunting of Chevy-Chase, and the brave- 
ry of Johnny Armstrong, among the English; 
of Kaul Dereg among the Irish ; and Crichton 
among the Scots, are instances. Of all the tradi- 
tions, however, I remember to have heard, I do not 
recollect any more remarkable than one still current 
in Flanders ; a story generally the first the peasants 
tell their children, when they bid them behave like 
Bidderman the wise. It is by no means, however, 
a model to be set before a polite people for imita- 
tion; since if, on the one hand, we perceive in it 
the steady influence of patriotism, we on the other 
find as strong a desire of revenge. But, to wave 
introduction, let us to the story. 

When the Saracens overran Europe with their 
armies, and penetrated as far even as Antwerp, 
Bidderman was lord of a city, which time has since 
swept into destruction. As the inhabitants of this 
country were divided under separate leaders, the 
Saracens found an easy conquest, and the city of 
Bidderman, among the rest, became a prey to the 
victors. 

Thus dispossessed of his paternal city, our un- 
fortunate governor was obliged to seek refuge from 
the neighbouring princes, who were as yet unsub- 
dued, and he for some time lived in a state of wretch- 
ed dependence among them. 

Soon, however, his love to his native country 
brought him back to his own city, resolved to res- 
cue it from the enemy, or fall in the attempt : thus, 
in disguise, he went among the inhabitants, and 
endeavoured, but in vain, to excite them to revolt. 
Former misfortunes lay so heavily on their minds, 
that they rather chose to suffer the most cruel 
bondage than attempt to vindicate their former 
freedom. 

As he was thus one day employed, whether by 
information or from suspicion is not known, he was 
apprehended by a Saracen soldier as a spy, and 
brought before the very tribunal at which he once 
presided. The account he gave of himself was by 
no means satisfactory. He could produce no friends 
to vindicate his character, wherefore, as the Sara- 
cens knew not their prisoner, and as they had no 
direct proofs against him, they were content with 
condemning him to be publicly whipped as a vaga- 
bond. 

The execution of this sentence was accordingly 
performed with the utmost rigour. Bidderman 
was bound to the post, the executioner seeming 
disposed to add to the cruelty of the sentence, as he 
received no bribe for lenity. Whenever Bidderman 
groaned under the scourge, the other, redoublincr 
his blows, cried out " Does the villain murmur?" 
If Bidderman entreated but a moment's respite from 



torture, the other only repeated his former excla- 
mation, " Does the villain murmur?" 

From this period, revenge as well as patriotism 
took entire possession of his soul. His fury stooped 
so low as to follow the executioner with unremitting 
resentment. But conceiving that the best method 
to attain these ends was to acquire some eminence 
in the city, he laid himself out to oblige its new 
masters, studied every art, and practised every 
meanness, that serve to promote the needy, or ren- 
der the poor pleasing; and by these means, in a few 
years, he came to be of some note in the city, which 
justly belonged entirely to him. 

The executioner was therefore the first object 
of his resentment, and he even practised the lowest 
fraud to gratify the revenge he owed him. A piece 
of plate, which Bidderman had previously stolen 
from the Saracen governor, he privately conveyed 
into the executioner's house, and then gave informa- 
tion of the theft. They who are any way acquaint- 
ed with the rigour of the Arabian laws, know that 
theft is punished with immediate death. The 
proof was direct in this case ; the executioner had 
nothing to offer in his own defence, and he was 
therefore condemned to be beheaded upon a scaf- 
fold in the public market-place. As there was no 
executioner in the city but the very man who was 
now to sufTer, Bidderman himself undertook this, 
to him a most agreeable office. The criminal was 
conducted from the judgment-seat, bound with 
cords : the scaffold was erected, and he placed in 
such a manner as he might lie most convenient for 
the blow. 

But his death alone was not sufficient to satisfy 
the resentment of this extraordinary man, unless 
it was aggravated with every circumstance of cru- 
elty. Wherefore, coming up the scafibld, and dis- 
posing every thing in readiness for the intended 
blow, with the sword in his hand he approached 
the criminal, and whispering in a low voice, assur- 
ed him that he himself was the person that had 
once been used with so much cruelty; that to his 
knowledge he died very innocently, for the plate 
had been stolen by himself, and privately conveyed 
into the house of the other. 

" O, my countrymen," cried the criminal, " do 
you hear what this man says?" — " Does the villain 
murmur?" rephed Bidderman, and immediately at 
one blow severed his head from his body. 

Still, however, he was not content till he had 
ample vengeance of the governors of the city, who 
condemned him. To eflect this, he hired a small 
house adjoining to the towTi-wall, under which he 
every day dug, and carried out the earth in a basket. 
In this unremitting labour he continued several 
years, every day digging a little, and carrying the 
earth unsuspected away. By this means he at last 
made a secret communication from the country in- 



444 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



to the city, and only wanted the appearance of an 
enemy in order to betray it. This opportunity at 
length offered ; the French army came down into 
the neighbourhood, but had no thoughts of sitting 
down before a town which they considered as im- 
pregnable. Bidderman, however, soon altered their 
resolutions, and, upon communicating his plan to 
the general, he embraced it with ardour. Through 
the private passage above mentioned, he introduced 
a large body of the most resolute soldiers, who soon 
opened the gates for the rest, and the whole army 
rushing in, put every Saracen that was found to 
the sword. 



THE SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS. 

To the author of the Bee. 
Sir, 

Animals in general are sagacious in proportion 
as they cultivate society. The elephant and the 
beaver show the greatest signs of this when united; 
but when man intrudes into their communities, 
they lose all their spirit of industry, and testify but 
a very small share of that sagacity for which, when 
in a social state, they are so remarkable. 

Among insects, the labours of the bee and the 
ant have employed the attention and admiration 
of the naturalist; but their whole sagacity is lost 
upon separation, and a single bee or ant seems 
destitute of every degree of industry, is the most 
stupid insect imaginable, languishes for a time in 
solitude, and soon dies. 

Of all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, 
the spider is the most sagacious ; and its actions, 
to me who have attentively considered them, seem 
almost to exceed belief. This insect is formed by 
nature for a state of war, not only upon other in- 
sects, but upon each other. For this state nature 
seems perfectly well to have formed it. Its head 
and breast are covered with a strong natural coat 
of mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of 
every other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a 
soft pliant skin, which eludes the sting even of a 
wasp. Its legs are terminated by strong claws, 
not unlike thoseof a lobster ; and their vast length, 
like spears, serve to keep every assailant at a 
distance. 

Not worse furnished for observation than for an 
attack or a defence, it has several eyes, large, trans- 
parent, and covered with a horny substance, which, 
however, does not impede its vision. Besides this, 
it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth, 
which serves to kill or secure the prey already 
caught in its claws or its net. 

Such are the implements of war with which the 
body is immediately furnished , but its net to en- 
tangle the enemy seems what it chiefly trusts to, 
and what it takes most pains to render as complete 



as possible. Nature has furnished the body of this 
little creature with a glutinous liquid, which, 
proceeding from the anus, it spins into thread, 
coarser or finer, as it chooses to contract or dilate 
its sphincter. In order to fix its thread when it 
begins to weave, it emits a small drop of its Hquid 
against the wall, which, hardening by degrees, 
serves to hold the thread very firmly. Then re- 
ceding from its first point, as it recedes the thread 
lengthens ; and when the spider has come to the 
place where the other end of the thread should 
be fixed, gathering up with his claws the thread 
which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched 
tightly, and fixed in the same manner to the wall 
as before. 

In this manner it spins and fixes several threads 
parallel to each other, which, so to speak, serves 
as the warp to the intended web. To form the 
woof, it spins in the same manner its thread, trans- 
versely fixing one end to the first thread that was 
spun, and which is always the strongest of the 
whole web, and the other to the wall. All these 
threads being newly spun, are glutinous and there- 
fore stick to each other wherever they happen to 
touch; and in those parts of the web most expos- 
ed to be torn, our natural artist strengthens them, 
by doubling the threads sometimes six-fold. 

Thus far naturalists have gone in the descrip- 
tion of this animal ; what follows is the result of 
my own observation upon that species of the insect 
called a house-spider. I perceived about four years 
ago, a large spider in one corner of my room, 
making its web ; and though the maid frequently 
levelled her fatal broom against the labours of the 
little animal, I had the good fortune then to pre- 
vent its destruction ; and I may say, it more than 
paid me by the entertainment it afforded. 

In three days the web was with incredible dili- 
gence completed ; nor could I avoid thinking, that 
the insect seemed to exult in its new abode. It 
frequently traversed it round, examined the strength 
of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came 
out very frequently. The first enemy, however, 
it had to encounter, was another and a much lar- 
ger spider, which, having no web of its own, and 
having probably exhausted all its stock in former 
labours of this kind, came to invade the property 
of its neighbour. Soon, then, a terrible encoun- 
ter ensued, in which the invader seemed to have 
the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to 
take refuge in its hole. Upon this I perceived the 
victor using every art to draw the enemy from his 
strong hold. He seemed to go off, but quickly re- 
turned ; and when he found all arts vain, began to 
demolish the new web without mercy. This 
brought on another battle, and, contrary to my ex- 
pectations, the laborious spider became conqueror, 
and fairly killed his antagonist. 

Now, then, in peaceable possession of what was 



THE BEE. 



445 



justly its own, it waited three days with the ut- 
most impatience, repairing the breaches of its web, 
and taking no sustenance that I could perceive. 
At last, however, a large blue fly fell into the snare, 
and struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave 
it leave to entangle itself as much as possible, but 
it seemed to be too strong for the cobweb. I must 
own I was greatly surprised when I saw the spider 
immediately sally out, and in less than a minute 
weave a new net round its captive, by which the 
motion of its wings was stopped ; and, when it was 
fairly hampered in this manner, it was seized, and 
dragged into the hole. 

In this manner it lived, in a precarious state ; 
and nature seemed to have fitted it for such a life, 
for upon a single fly it subsisted for more than a 
week. I once put a wasp into the net ; but when 
the spider came out in order to seize it as usual, 
upon perceiving what kind of an enemy it had to 
deal with, it instantly broke all the bands that held 
it fast, and contributed all that lay in its power to 
to disengage so formidable an antagonist. When 
the wasp was at liberty, I expected the spider 
would have set about repairing the breaches that 
were made in its net, but those it seems were irre- 
parable : wherefore the cobweb was now entirely 
forsaken, and a new one begun, which was com- 
pleted in the usual time. 

I had now a mind to try how many cobwebs a 
single spider could furnish ; wherefore I destroyed 
this, and the insect set about another. When I 
destroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed en- 
tirely exhausted, and it could spin no more. The 
arts it made use of to support itself, now deprived 
of its great means of subsistence, were indeed sur- 
prising. I have seen it roll up its legs like a ball, 
and lie motionless for hours together, but cautious- 
ly watching all the time : when a fly happened to 
approach sufficiently near, it would dart out all at 
once, and often seize its prey. 

Of this life, however, it soon began to grow 
weary, and resolved to invade the possession of 
some other spider, since it could not make a web 
of its own. It formed an attack upon a neighbour- 
ing fortification with great vigour, and at first was 
as vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, however, 
with one defeat, in this manner it continued to lay 
siege to another's web for three days, and at length, 
having killed the defendant, actually took posses- 
sion. When smaller flies happen to fall into the 
snare, the spider does not sally out at once, but 
very patiently waits till it is sure of them; for upon 
his immediately approaching, the terror of his ap- 
pearance might give the captive strength sufficient 
to get loose : the manner then is to wait patiently 
till by ineffectual and impotent struggles, the cap- 
tive has wasted all its strength, and then he be- 
comes a certain and easy conquest. 



The insect I am now describing lived three 
years ; every year it changed its skin, and got a 
new set of legs. I have sometimes plucked off a 
leg, which grew again in two or three days. At 
first it dreaded my approach to its web, but at last 
it became so familiar as to take a fly out of my 
hand ; and upon my touching any part of the web, 
would immediately leave its hole, prepared either 
for a defence or an attack. 

To complete this description, it may be observed, 
that the male spiders are much less than the female, 
and that the latter are oviparous. When they come 
to lay, they spread a part of their web under the 
eggs, and then roll them up carefully, as we roll up 
things in a cloth, and thus hatch them in their hole. 
If disturbed in their holes, they never attempt to 
escape without carrying this young brood in their 
forceps, away with them, and thus frequently are 
sacrificed to their paternal affection. 

As soon as ever the young ones leave their ar- 
tificial covering, they begin to spin, and almost sen- 
sibly seem to grow bigger. If they have the good 
fortune, when even but a day old, to catch a fly, 
they fall too with good appetites : but they live 
sometimes three or four days without any sort of 
sustenance, and yet still continue to grow larger, 
so as every day to double their former size. As 
they grow old, however, they do not still continue 
to increase, but their legs only continue to grow 
longer ; and when a spider becomes entirely stiff 
with age and unable to seize its prey, it dies at 
length of hunger. 

THE CHARACTERISTICS OF GREAT- 
NESS. 

In every duty, in every science in which we 
would wish to arrive at perfection, we should pro- 
pose for the object of our pursuit some certain sta- 
tion even beyond our abilities ; some imaginary ex- 
cellence, which may amuse and serve to animate 
our inquiry. In deviating from others, in follow- 
ing an unbeaten road, though we perhaps may 
never arrive at the wished-for object, yet it is possible 
we may meet several discoveries by the way ; and 
the certainty of small advantages, even while we 
travel with security, is not so amusing as the hopes 
of great rewards, which inspire the adventurer. 
Evenit nonnunquam, says Gluintilian, ut aliquid 
grande inveniat qui semper qucerit quod nimium 
est. 

This enterprising spiritis, however, by no means 
the character of the present age : every person who 
should now leave received opinions, who should 
attempt to be more than a commentator upon phi- 
losophy, or an imitator in polite learning, might be 
regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds 
would be ready not only to point out his errors, 



446 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



but to load him with reproach. Our probable opin- 
ions are now regarded as certainties ; the difficul- 
ties hitherto undiscovered as utterly inscrutable ; 
and the last age inimitable, and therefore the pro- 
perest models of imitation. 

One might be almost induced to deplore the phi- 
losophic spirit of the age, which, in proportion as 
it enUghtens the mind, increases its timidity, and 
represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men 
are now content with being prudently in the right; 
which, though not the way to make new acquisi- 
tions, it must be owned, is the best method of se- 
curing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the 
writer who never deviates, whenever hazards a new 
thought, or a new expression, though his friends 
may compUment him upon his sagacity, though 
criticism lifts her feeble voice in his praise, will 
seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The 
way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the few- 
ness of a writer's faults, but the greatness of his 
beauties; and our noblest works are generally most 
replete with both. 

An author who would be sublime, often runs 
his thought into burlesque ; yet I can readily par- 
don his mistaking ten times for once succeeding. 
True genius walks along a Hue; and perhaps our 
greatest pleasure is in seeing it so often near fall- 
ing, without being ever actually down. 

Every science has its lutherto undiscovered mys- 
teries, after which men should travel undiscouraged 
by the failure of former adventurers. Every new 
attempt serves perhaps to facihtate its future in- 
vention. We may not fmd the philosopher's 
stone, but we shall probably hit upon new inven- 
tions in pursuing it. We shall perhaps never be 
able to discover the longitude, yet perhaps we may 
arrive at new truths in the investigation. 

Were any of those sagacious minds among us 
(and surely no nation, or no person, could ever 
compare with us in this particular) ; were any of 
those minds, I say, who now sit down contented 
with exploring the intricacies of another's system, 
bravely to shake off admiration, and, undazzled 
with the splendour of another's reputation, to 
chalk out a path to fame for themselves, and boldly 
cultivate untried experiment, what might not be 
the result of their inquiries, should the same study 
that has made them wise make them enterprising 
also 1 What could not such qualities united pro- 
duce '? But such is not the character of the Eng- 
lish : while our neighbours of the continent launch 
out into the ocean of science, without proper store 
for the voyage, we fear shipwreck in every breeze, 
and consume in port those powers which might 
probably have weathered every storm. 

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded 



above their deserts ; projectors in the republic of 
letters, never. If wrong, every inferior dunce 
thinks himself entitled to laugh at their disap- 
pointment ; if right, men of superior talents think 
their honour engaged to oppose, since every new 
discovery is a tacit dimuiution of their own pre- 
eminence. 

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, 
and our all must be ventured ; by aiming only at 
mediocrity, we run no risk, and we do little service. 
Prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to 
contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be 
content with our station, and to find happiness in 
bounding every wish : the other impels us to su- 
periority, and calls nothing happiness but rapture. 
The one directs to follow mankind, and to act and 
think with the rest of the world : the other drives 
us from the crowd, and exposes us as a mark to all 
the shafts of envy or ignorance. 



Nee minus periculum ex magna fama quam ex mala. 

Tacit. 



The rewards of mediocrity are immediately 
paid, those attending excellence generally paid in 
reversion. In a word, the little mind who loves 
itself, will write and think with the vulgar, but the 
great mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the 
beaten road, from universal benevolence. 

*^* In this place our author introduces a paper^ 
entitled a City Night Piece, with the following, 
motto from Martial. 

Die dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet. 

This beautiful Essay forms the 117th letter in 
the Citizen of the World ; but Dr. Goldsmith has 
there omitted the concluding paragraph, which, on 
account of its singular merit, we shall here pre- 
serve. 

But let me turn from a scene of such distress to 
the sanctified hypocrite, who has been talking of 
virtue till the time of bed, and now steals out to 
give a loose to his vices under the protection of 
midnight: vices more atrocious because he at- 
tempts to conceal them. See how he pants down 
the dark alley ; and, with hastening steps, fears an 
acquaintance in every face. He has passed the 
whole day in company he hates, and now goes t» 
prolong the night among company that as heartily 
hate him. May his vices be detected ! may the 
morning rise upon his shame! Yet I wish to no 
purpose ; villany, when detected, never gives up^ 
but boldly adds impudence to imposture. 



THE BEE. 



447 



THE BEE, No. V. 



Saturday, November 3, 1759. 

UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY. 

Frugality has ever been esteemed a virtue as 
well among Pagans as Christians : there have been 
even heroes who have practised it. However, we 
must acknowledge, that it is too modest a virtue, 
or, if you will, too obscure a one, to be essential to 
heroism ; few heroes have been able to attain to 
such a height. Frugality agrees much better with 
politics ; it seems to be the base, the support, and, 
in a word, seems to be the inseparable companion 
of a just administration. 

HoWever this be, there is not perhaps in the 
world a people less fond of this virtue than the 
English ; and of consequence, there is not a na- 
tion more restless, more exposed to the uneasiness 
of life, or less capable of providing for particular 
happiness. We are taught to despise this virtue 
from our childhood, our education is improperly 
directed, and a man who has gone through the po- 
litest institutions, is generally the person who is 
least acquainted with the wholesome precepts of 
frugality. We every day hear the elegance of 
taste, the magnificence of some, and the generosity 
of others, made the subject of our admiration and 
applause. All this we see represented, not as the 
end and recompense of labour and desert, but as 
the actual result of genius, as the mark of a noble 
and exalted mind. 

In the midst of these praises bestowed on luxury. 
for which elegance and taste are but another name, 
perhaps it may be thought improper to plead the 
cause of frugality. It may be thought low, or 
vainly declamatory, to exhort our youth from the 
follies of dress, and of every other superfluity ; to 
accustom themselves, even with mechanic mean- 
ness, to the simple necessaries of hfe. Such sort 
of instructions may appear antiquated ; yet, how- 
ever, they seem the foundations of all our virtues, 
and the most efficacious method of making man- 
kind useful members of society. Unhappily, how- 
ever, such discourses are not fashionable among 
us, and the fashion seems every day growing still 
more obsolete, since the press, and every other 
method of exhortation, seems disposed to talk of 
the luxuries of life as harmless enjoyments. I re- 
member, when a boy, to have remarked, that those 
who in school wore the finest clothes, were pointed 
at as being conceited and proud. At present, our 
Uttle masters are taught to consider dress betimes, 
and they are regarded, even at school, with con- 
tempt, who do not appear as genteel as the rest. 
Education should teach us to become useful, sober, 



disinterested, and laborious members of society ; 
but does it not at present point out a different path "J 
It teaches us to multiply our wants, by which 
means we become more eager to possess, in order 
to dissipate, a greater charge to ourselves, and 
more useless or obnoxious to society. 

If a youth happens to be possessed of more ge- 
nius than fortune, he is early informed, that he 
ought to think of his advancement in the world ; 
that he should labour to make himself pleasing to 
his superiors ; that he should shun low company 
(by which is meant the company of his equals) ; 
that he should rather live a little above than below 
his fortune; that he should think of becoming 
great : but he finds none to admonish him to be- 
come frugal, to persevere in one single design, to 
avoid every pleasure and all flattery which, how- 
ever seeming to conciliate the favour of his supe- 
riors, never conciliate their esteem. There are 
none to teach him, that the best way of becoming 
happy in himself, and useful to others, is to con- 
tinue in the state in which fortime at first placed 
him, without making too hasty strides to advance- 
ment ; that greatness may be attained, but should 
not be expected ; and that they who most impa- 
tiently expect advancement, are seldom possessed 
of their wishes. He has few, I say, to teach him 
this lesson, or to moderate his youtliful passions ; 
yet this experience may say, that a young man, 
who, but for six years of the early part of his life, 
could seem divested of all his passions, would 
certainly make, or considerably increase his for- 
tune, and might indulge several of his favour- 
ite incUnations in manhood with the utmost se- 
curity. 

The efficaciousness of these means is sufficiently 
known and acknowledged ; but as we are apt to 
connect a low idea with all our notions of frugality, 
the person who would persuade us to it might be 
accused of preaching up avarice. 

Of all vices, however, against which morality 
dissuades, there is not one more undetermined 
than this of avarice. Misers are described by ' 
some, as men divested of honour, sentiment, or hu- 
manity; but this is only an ideal picture, or the re- 
semblance at least is found but in a few. In truth, 
they who are generally called misers, are some of 
the very best members of society. The sober, 
the laborious, the attentive, the frugal, are thus 
styled by the gay, giddy, thoughtless, and extra- 
vagant. The first set of men do society all the 
good, and the latter all the evil that is felt. Even 
the excesses of the first no way injure the com- 
monwealth ; those of the latter are the most in- 
jurious that can be conceived. 

The ancient Romans, more rational than we in 
this particular, were very far from thus misplacing 
their admiration or praise ; instead of regarding 
the practice of parsimony as low or vicious, they 



448 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



made it synonymous even with probity. They es- 
teemed those virtues so inseparable, that the knovsm 
expression of Vir Frugi signilied, at one and the 
same time, a sober and managing man, an honest 
man, and a man of substance. 

The Scriptures, in a thousand places, praise 
economy; and it is every where distinguished from 
avarice. But in spite of all its sacred dictates, a 
taste for vain pleasures and foolish expense is the 
ruling passion of the present times. Passion, did 
I call it7 rather the madness which at once possesses 
the great and the little, the rich and the poor : even 
some are so intent upon acquiring the superfluities 
of life that they sacrifice its necessaries in this fool- 
ish pursuit. 

To attempt the entire abolition of luxury, as it 
would be impossible, so it is not my intent. The 
generality of mankind are too weak, too much 
slaves to custom and opinion, to resist the torrent 
of bad example. But if it be impossible to convert 
the multitude, those who have received a more ex- 
tended education, who are enlightened and judi- 
cious, may find some hints on this subject useful. 
They may see some abuses, the suppression of 
which would by no means endanger public liberty ; 
they may be directed to the abolition of some un- 
necessary expenses, which have no tendency to 
promote happiness or virtue, and which might be 
directed to better purposes. Our fire-works, our 
public feasts and entertainments, our entries of am- 
bassadors, etc. ; what mummery all this ! what 
childish pageants ! what millions are sacrificed in 
paying tribute to custom! what an unnecessary 
charge at times when we are pressed with real 
•want, which can not be satisfied without burdening 
the poor ! 

Were such suppressed entirely, not a single 
creature in the state would have the least cause to 
mourn their suppression, and many might be eased 
of a load they now feel lying heavily upon them. 
If this were put in practice, it would agree with the 
advice of a sensible writer of Sweden, who, in the 
Gazette de France, 1753, thus expressed himself 
on that subject. "It were sincerely to be wished," 
says he, " that the custom were established amongst 
us, that in all events which cause a public joy, we 
made our exultations conspicuous only by acts use- 
ful to society. We should then quickly see many 
useful monuments of our reason, which would 
muchbetterperpetuate the memory of things worthy 
of being transmitted to posterity, and would be 
much more glorious to humanity, than all those 
tumultuous pre[)arations of feasts, entertainments, 
and other rejoicings used upon such occasions." 

The same proposal was long before confirmed by 
a Chinese emperor, who lived in the last century, 
who, upon an occasion of extraordinary joy, forbade 
his subjects to make the usual illuminations, either 
with a design of sparing their substance, or of 



turning them to some more durable indications of 
joy, more glorious for him, and more advantageous 
to his people. 

After such instances of political frugality, can 
we then continue to blame the Dutch ambassador 
at a certain court, who, receiving at his departure 
the portrait of the lung, enriched with diamonds, 
asked what this fine thing might be worth? Being 
told that it might amount to about two thousand 
pounds, "And why," cries he, " can not his majes- 
ty keep the picture and give the money?" The 
simplicity may be ridiculed at first ; but when we 
come to examine it more closely, men of sense will 
at once confess that he had reason in what he said, 
and that a purse of two thousand guineas is much 
more serviceable than a picture. 

Should we follow the same method of state fru- 
gality in other respects, what numberless savings 
might not be the result ! How many possibilities 
of saving in the administration of justice, which 
now burdens the subject, and enriches some mem- 
bers of society, who are useful only from its cor- 
ruption ! 

It were to be wished, that they who govern king- 
doms would imitate artisans. When at London a 
new stutr has been invented, it is immediately 
counterfeited in France. How happy were it for 
society, if a first minister would be equally solicit- 
ous to transplant the useful laws of other countries 
into his own. We are arrived at a perfect imita- 
tion of porcelain ; let us endeavour to imitate the 
good to society that our neighbours are found to 
practise, and let our neighbours also imitate those 
parts of duty in which we excel. 

There are some men, who in their garden at- 
tempt to raise those fruits which nature has adapt- 
ed only to the sultry climates beneath the line. We 
have at our very doors a thousand laws and cus- 
toms infinitely useful : these are the fruits we should 
endeavour to transplant; these the exotics that 
would speedily become naturalized to the soil. They 
might grow in every climate, and benefit every pos- 
sessor. 

The best and the most useful laws I have ever 
seen, are generally practised in Holland. When 
two men are determined to go to law with each 
other, they are first obliged to go before the recon- 
ciling judges, called the peace-makers. If the 
parties come attended with an advocate, or a so- 
licitor, they are obliged to retire, as we take fuel 
from the fire we are desirous of extinguishing. 

The peace- makers then begin advising the par- 
ties, by assuring them, that it is the height of folly 
to waste their substance, and make themselves 
mutually miserable, by having recourse to the tri- 
bunals of justice; follow but our direction, and we 
will accommodate matters without any expense to 
either. If the rage of debate is too strong upon 
either party, they are remitted back for another 



THE BEE. 



449 



day, in order that time may soften tlieir tempers, 
and produce a reconciliation. They are thus sent 
for twice or thrice : if their folly happens to be in- 
curable, they are permitted to go to law, and as 
we give up to amputation such members as can 
not be cured by art, justice is permitted to talce its 
course. 

It is unnecessary to make here long declamations, 
or calculate what society would save, were this law 
adopted. I am sensible, that the man who advises 
any reformation, only serves to make himself ridi- 
culous. What ! mankind will be apt to say, adopt 
the customs of countries that have not so much real 
liberty as our own ! our present customs, what are 
they to any man? we are very happy under them : 
this must be a very pleasant fellow, who attempts 
to make us happier than we already are ! Does he 
not know that abuses are the patrimony of a great 
part of the nation? Why deprive us of a malady 
by which such numbers find their account? This, 
I must own, is an argrment to which I have no- 
thing to reply. 

What numberless savings might there not be 
made in both arts and commerce, particularly in 
the I oerty of exercising trade, without the neces- 
sary prerequisites of freedom ! Such useless ob- 
structions have crept into every state, from a spirit 
of monopoly, a narrow selfish spirit of gain, with- 
out the least attention to general society. Such a 
clog upon industry frequently drives the poor from 
labour, and reduces them by degrees to a state of 
hopeless indigence. We have already a more than 
sufficient repugnance to labour ; we should by no 
means increase the obstacles, or make excuses in a 
state for idleness. Such faults have ever crept 
into a state, under wrong or needy administra- 
tions. 

Exclusive of the masters, there are numberless 
faulty expenses among the workmen ; clubs, garn- 
ishes, freedoms, and such like impositions, which 
are not too minute even for law to take notice of, 
and which should be abolished without mercy, 
since they are e-ver the inlets to excess and idle- 
ness, and are the parent of all those outrages which 
naturally fall upon the more useful part of society. 
In the towns and countries I have seen, I never 
saw a city or village yet, whose miseries were not 
in proportion to the number of its public-houses. 
In Rotterdam, you may go through eight or ten 
streets without finding a public-house. In Ant- 
werp, almost every second house seems an ale- 
house. In the one city, all wears the appearance 
of happiness and warm affluence ; in the other, the 
young fellows walk about the streets in shabby 
finery, their fathers sit at the door darning or knit- 
ting stockings, while their ports are filled with 
dunghills. 

Alehouses are ever an occasion of debauchery 
29 



and excess, and, either in a religious or political 
light, it would be our highest interest to have the 
greatest part of them suppressed. They should be 
put under laws of not continuing open beyond a 
certain hour, and harbouring only proper persons. 
These rules, it may be said, will diminish the ne- 
cessary taxes; but this is false reasoning, since what 
was consumed in debauchery abroad, would, if 
such a regulation took place, be more justly, and 
perhaps more equitably for the workman's family, 
spent at home ; and this cheaper to them, and with- 
out loss of time. On the other hand, our alehouses 
being ever open, interrupt business ; the workman 
is never certain who frequents them, nor can the 
master be sure of having what was begun, finished 
at the convenient time. 

A habit of fiugality among the lower orders of 
mankind, is much more beneficial to society than 
the unreflecting might imagine. The pawnbroker, 
the attorney, and other pests of society, might, by 
proper management, be turned into serviceable 
members ; and, were their trades abolished, it is 
possible the same avarice that conducts the one, or 
the same chicanery that characterizes the otlicr, 
might, by proper regulations, be converted into 
frugality and commendable prudence. 

But some, who have made the eulogium of lux- 
ury, have represented it as the natural consequence 
of every country that is become rich. Did we not 
employ our extraordinary wealth in superfluities, 
say they, what other means would there be to em- 
ploy it in? To which it may be answered, if fru- 
gality were established in the state, if our expenses 
were laid out rather in the necessaries than the 
superfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, 
and even fewer pleasures, but infinitely more hap- 
piness. The rich and the great would be better 
able to satisfy their creditors; they would be better 
able to marry their children, and, instead of one 
marriage at present, there might be two, if such 
regulations took place. 

The imaginary calls of vanity, wliich in reality 
contribute nothing to our real felicity, would not 
then be attended to, while the real calls of nature 
might be always and universally supplied. The 
difference of employment in the subject is what, in 
reality, produces the good of society. If the sub- 
ject be engaged in providing only the luxuries, the 
necessaries must be deficient in proportion. If, 
neglecting the produce of our own country, our 
minds are set upon the productions of another, we 
increase our wants, but not our means ; and every 
new imported delicacy for our tables, or ornament 
in our equipage, is a tax upon the poor. 

The true interest of every government is to cul- 
tivate the necessaries, by which is always meant 
every happiness our own country can produce ; 
and suppress all the luxuries, by which is meant, 



Am 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



on the other hand, every happiness imported from 
abroad. Commerce has therefore its bounds ; and 
every new import, instead of receiving encourage- 
ment, should be first examined whether it be con- 
ducive to the interest of society. 

Among the many puWications with which the 
press is every day burdened, I have often wondered 
why we never had, as in other countries, an 
Economical Journal, which might at once direct to 
all the useful discoveries in other countries, and 
spread those of our own. As other journals serve 
to amuse the learned, or, what is more often the 
case, to make them quarrel, while they only serve 
to give us the history of the mischievous world, for 
so 1 call our warriors; or the idle world, for so may 
the learned be called ; they never trouble their 
heads about the most useful part of mankind, our 
peasants and our artisans ; — were such a work car- 
ried into execution, with proper management, and 
just direction, it might serve as a repository for 
every useful improvement, and increase that know- 
ledge wloich learning often serves to confound. 

Sweden seems the only country where the sci- 
ence of economy seems to have fixed its empire. 
In other countries, it is cultivated oidy by a few 
admirers, or by societies which have not received 
sufficient sanction to become completely useful; 
but here there is founded a royal academy destined 
to this purpose only, composed of the most learned 
and powerful members of the state ; an academy 
which declines every thing which only terminates 
in amusement, erudition, or curiosity ; and admits 
only of observations tending to illustrate husbandrj', 
agriculture, and every real physical improvement. 
In this country nothing is left to private rapacity ; 
but every improvement is immediately diffused, 
and its inventor immediately recompensed by the 
state. Happy were it so in other countries; by 
this means, every impostor would be prevented from 
ruining or deceiving the public with pretended dis- 
coveries or nostrums, and every real inventor would 
not, by this means, suffer the inconveniencies of 
suspicion. 

In short, the economy equally unknown to the 
prodigal and avaricious, seems to be a just mean 
between both extremes ; and to a transgression of 
this at present decried virtue it is that we are to at- 
tribute a great part of the evils which infest society. 
A taste for superfluity, amusement, and pleasure, 
bring effeminacy, idleness, and expense in their 
train. But a thirst of riches is always proportion- 
ed to our debauchery, and the greatest prodigal is 
too frequently found to be the greatest miser; so 
that the vices which seem the most opposite, are 
frequently found to produce each other; and to 
avoid both, it is only^ necessary to be frugal. 



A REVERIE. 



Virtus est medium vitiorum et utrinque jeductum. — ffor. 



Scarcely a day passes in which we do not hear 
compliments paid to Dryden, Pope, and other 
writers of the last age, while not a mouth comes 
forward that is not loaded with invectives against 
the writers of this. Strange, that our critics should 
be fond of giving their favours to those who are 
insensible of the obligation, and their dislike to 
those, who, of all mankind, are most apt to retaliate 
the injury. 

Even though our present writers had not equal 
merit with their predecessors, it would be poUtic to 
use them with ceremony. Every compliment paid 
them would be more agreeable, in proportion as 
they least deserved it. Tell a lady with a hand- 
some face that she is pretty, she only thinks it her 
due ; it is what she has heard a thousand times be- 
fore from others, and disregards the compliment : 
but assure a lady, the cut of whose visage is some- 
thing more plain, that she looks killing to-day, she 
instantly bridles up, and feels the force of the well- 
timed flattery the whole day after. Compliments 
which we think are deserved, we accept only as 
debts, with indiflerence; but those which con- 
science informs us we do not merit, we receive witb 
the same. gratitude that we:do favours given away. 
Our gentlemen, however, who preside at the dis- 
tribution of literary fame, seem resolved to part with 
praise neither from motives of justice nor generosi- 
ty: one would think, when they take pen in hand, 
that it was only to blot reputations, and to put 
their seals to the packet which consigns every new- 
born effort to oblivion. 

Yet, notwithstanding the republic of letters 
hangs at present so feebly together ; though those 
friendships which once promoted literary fame seem 
now to be discontinued ; though every writer who 
now draws the quill seems to aim at profit, as well 
as applause; many among them are probably laying 
in stores for immortality, and are provided with a 
sufficient stock of reputation to last the whole 
journey. 

As I was indulging these reflections, in order to 
eke out the present page, I could not avoid pur- 
suing the metaphor of going a journey in my ima- 
gination, and formed the following Reverie, too 
wild for allegory and too regular for a dream. 

I fancied myself placed in the yard of a large 
inn, in which there were an infinite number of 
wagons and stage-coaches, attended by fellows who 
either invited the company to take their places, or 
were busied in packing their baggage. Each vehicle 
had its inscription, showing the place of its desti- 
nation. On one I could read. The pleasure stage- 
coach; on another. The wagon of industry ; on a 
third, The vanity whim ; and on a fourth, The 



THE BEE. 



451 



landau of riches. I had some inclination to step 
into each of these, one after another ; but I know 
not by what means, I passed them by, and at last 
fixed my eye upon a small carriage, Berlin fashion, 
which seemed the most convcnieii* vehicle at a dis- 
tance in the world ; and upon my nearer approach 
found it to be The fame viacliine. 

1 instantly made up to the coachman, whom I 
found to be an affable and scemingl_v good-natured 
fellow. He informed me, that he had but a few 
days ago returned from the Temple of Fame, to 
which he had been carrying Addison, Swift, Pope, 
Steele, Congreve, and Colley Gibber. That they 
made but indifferent company by the way, that he 
once or twice was going to empty his berlin of the 
■whole cargo : however, says he, I got them all 
safe home, with no other damage than a black eye, 
which Colley gave Mr. Pope, and am now return- 
ed for another coachful. " If that be all, friend," 
said I, "and if you are in- want of company, I'll 
make one with all my heart. Open the door ; I 
hope the machine rides easy." " Oh, for that, sir, 
extremely easy." But still keeping the door shut, 
and measuring me with his eye, " Pray, sir, have 
you no luggage? You seem to be a good-natured 
sort of a gentleman ; but I don't find you have got 
any luggage, and I never permit any to travel with 
me but such as have something valuable to pay for 
coach-hire." Examining my pockets, I own I was 
not a little disconcerted at this unexpected rebuff; 
but considering that I carried a number of the Bee 
under my arm, I was resolved to open it in his 
eyes, and dazzle him with the splendour of the 
page. He read the title and contents, however, 
without any emotion, and assured me he had 
never heard of it before. " In short, friend," said 
he, now losing all his former respect, "you must 
not come in : I expect better passengers ; but as 
you seem a harmless creature, perhaps, if there be 
room left, I may let you ride a while for charity." 

I now took my stand by the coachman at the 
door; and since I could not command a seat, was 
resolved to be as useful as possible, and earn by my 
assiduity what I could not by my merit. 

The next that presented for a place was a most 
whimsical figure indeed. He was hung round 
with papers of his own composing, not unhke those 
who sing ballads in the streets, and came dancing 
up to the door with all the confidence of instant 
admittance. The volubility of his motion and ad- 
dress prevented my being able to read more of his 
cargo than the word Inspector, which was written 
in great letters at the top of some of the papers. He 
opened the coach-door himself without any cere- 
mony, and was just slipping in, when the coach- 
man, with as little ceremony, pulled him back. Our 
figure seemed perfectly angry at this repulse, and 
demanded gentleman's satisfaction. "Lord, sir!" 
replied the coachman, "instead of proper luggage, 



by your bulk you seem loaded for a West India 
voyage. You are big enough with all your papers 
to crack twenty stage-coaches. Excuse me, in- 
deed, sir, for you must not enter." Our figure now 
began to expostulate: he assured the coachman, 
that though his baggage seemed so bulky, it was 
perfectly light, and that he would be contented 
with the smallest corner of room. But Jehu was 
inflexible, and the carrier of the Inspectors was 
sent to dance back again with all his papers flut- 
tering in the wind. We expected to have no more 
trouble from this quarter, when in a few minutes 
the same figure changed his appearance, like har- 
lequin upon the stage, and with the same confi- 
dence again made his approaches, dressed in lace, 
and carrying nothing but a nosegay. Upon com- 
ing nearer, he thrust the nosegay to the coach- 
man's nose, grasped the brass, and seemed now re- 
solved to enter by violence. I found the struggle 
soon begin to grow hot, and the coachman, who 
was a little old, unable to continue the contest ; so, 
in order to ingratiate myself, I stepped in to his 
assistance, and our united efforts sent our literary 
Proteus, though worsted, unconquered still, clear 
off, dancing a rigadoon, and smelling to his own 
nosegay. 

The person who after him appeared as candidate 
for a place in the stage, came up with an air not quite 
so confident, but somewhat however theatrical; 
and, instead of entering, made the coachman a very 
low bow, which the other returned and desired to 
see his baggage ; upon which he instantly produced 
some farces, a tragedy, and other miscellany pro- 
ductions. The coachman, casting his eye upon 
the cargo, assured him at present he could not pos- 
sibly have a place, but hoped in time he might as- 
pire to one, as he seemed to have read in the book 
of nature, without a careful perusal of which, none 
ever found entrace at the Temple of Fame. 
" What !" replied the disappointed poet, " shall 
my tragedy, in which I have vindicated the cause 
of liberty and virtue — " "Follow nature," re- 
turned the other, "and never expect to find lasting 
fame by topics which only please from their popu- 
larity. Had you been first in the cause of freedom 
or praised in virtue more than an empty name, it 
is possible you might have gained admittance; 
but at present I beg sir, you will stand aside for 
another gentleman whom I see approaching." 

This was a very grave personage, whom at some 
distance I took for one of the most reserved, and 
even disagreeable figures I had seen ; but as he 
approached, his appearance improved, and when I 
could distinguish him thoroughly, I perceived that, 
in spite of the severity of his brow, he had one of 
the most good-natured countenances that could be 
imagined. Upon coming to open the stage door, 
he lifted a parcel of folios into the seat before him, 
but our inquisitorial coachman at once shoved them 



452 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



out again. " What ! not take in my DictionaryT' 
exclaimed the other in a rage. " Be patient, sir," 
replied the coachman, " I have drove a coach, man 
and boy, these two thousand years ; but I do not 
remember to have carried above one dictionary 
during the whole time. That little book which 1 
perceive peeping from one of your pockets, may 
I presume to ask what it contains?" "A mere 
trifle," replied the author ; " it is called The Ram- 
bler." " The Rambler !" says the coachman, " 1 
beg, sir, you will take your place ; I have heard our 
ladies in the court of Apollo frequently mention 
it with rapture : and Clio, who happens to be a 
little grave, has been heard to prefer it to the Spec- 
tator; though others have observed, that the re- 
flections, by being refined, sometimes become mi- 
nute." 

This grave gentleman was scarcely seated, when 
another, whose appearance was something more 
modern, seemed wilUng to enter, yet afraid to ask. 
He carried in his hand a bundle of essays, of 
which the coachman was curious enough to inquire 
the contents. " These," replied the gentleman, 
" are rhapsodies against the religion of my coun- 
try." And how can you expect to come into my 
coach, after thus choosing the wrong side of the 
question']" "Ay, but I am right," replied the 
other; " and if you give me leave I shall in a few 
minutes state the argument." "Right or wrong," 
said the coachman, "he who disturbs religion is a 
blockhead, and he shall never travel in a coach of 
mine." " If, then," said the gentleman, mustering 
up all his courage, "if I am not to have admit- 
tance as an essayist, I hope I shall not be repulsed 
as an historian ; the last volume of my history met 
with applause." "Yes," replied the coachman, 
" but I have heard only the first approved at the 
Temple of Fame ; and as I see you have it about 
you, enter without further ceremony." My atten- 
tion was now diverted to a crowd who were push- 
ing forward a person that seemed more inclined to 
the stage-coach of riches ; but by their means he 
was driven forward to the same machine, which he, 
however, seemed heartily to despise. Impelled, 
however, by their solicitations, he steps up, flourish- 
ing a voluminous history, and demanding admit- 
tance. " Sir, 1 have formerly heard your name 
mentioned," says the coachman, " but never as an 
historian. Is there no other work upon which you 
may claim a place 1" " None," replied the other, 
" except a romance ; but this is a work of too tri- 
fling a nature to claim future attention. " You 
mistake," says the inquisitor, " a well-written ro- 
mance is no such easy task as is generally imagin- 
ed. I remember formerly to have carried Cervan- 
tes and Segrais ; and, if you think fit, you may 
enter." 

Upon our three literary travellers coming into 
the same coach, I listened attentively to hear what 



might be the conversation that passed upon this ex- 
traordinary occasion ; when, instead of agreeable 
or entertaining dialogue, I found them grumbling 
at each other, and each seemed discontented with 
his companion* Strange! thought I to myself, 
that they who are thus born to enlighten the world, 
should still preserve the narrow prejudices of child- 
hood, and, by disagreeing, make even the highest 
merit ridiculous. Were the learned and the wise 
to unite against the dunces of society, instead of 
sometimes siding into opposite parties with them, 
they might throw a lustre upon each other's repu- 
tation, and teach every rank of subordination me- 
rit, if not to admire, at least not to avow dislike. 

In the midst of these reflections, I perceived the 
coachman, unmindful of me, had now mounted 
the box. Several were approaching to be taken in, 
whose pretensions, I was sensible, were very just ; 
I therefore desired him to stop, and take in more 
passengers ; but he replied, as he had now mount- 
ed the box, it would be improper to come down ; 
but that he should take them all, one after the 
other, when he should return. So he drove 
away ; and for myself, as I could not get in, I 
mounted behind, in order to hear the conversation 
on the way. 

(To be continued.) 



A WORD OR TWO ON THE LATE 
FARCE, CALLED "HIGH LIFE BE- 
LOW STAIRS." 

Just as I had expected, before I saw this farce, 
I found it formed on two narrow a plan to afford a 
pleasing variety. The sameness of the humour in 
every scene could not but at last fail of being disa- 
greeable. Ths poor, affecting the manners of the 
rich, might be carried on through one character, or 
two at the most, with great propriety : but to have 
almost every personage on the scene almost of the 
same character, and reflecting the follies of each 
other, was unartful in the poet to the last degree. 

The scene was almost a continuation of the 
same absurdity, and my Lord Duke and Sir Har- 
ry (two footmen who assume these characters) 
have nothing else to do but to talk like their mas- 
ters, and are only introduced to speak, and to show 
themselves. Thus, as there is a sameness of cha- 
racter, there is a barrenness of incident, which, by 
a very small share of address, the poet might have 
easily avoided. 

From a conformity to critic rules, which per- 
haps on the whole have done more harm than 
good, our author has sacrificed all the vivacity of 
the dialogue to nature ; and though he makes his 
characters talk like servants, they are seldom ab- 
surd enough, or lively enough to make us merry. 
Though he is always natural, he happens seldom 
to be humorous. 



THE BEE. 



453 



The satire was well intended, if we regard it as 
being masters ourselves ; but probably a philoso- 
pher would rejoice in that liberty which English- 
men give their domestics ; and, for my own part, I 
can n.'^t avoid being pleased at the happiness of those 
poor creatures, who in some measure contribute to 
mine. The Athenians, the politest and best-na- 
tured people upon earth, were the kindest to their 
slaves; and if a person may judge, who has seen 
the world, our English servants are the best treated 
because the generality of our English gentlemen 
are the politest under the sun. 

But not to lift niy feeble voice among the pack 
of critics, who probably have no other occupation 
but that of cutting up every thing new, I must 
own, there are one or two scenes that are fine satire, 
and sufficiently humorous; particularly the first in- 
terview between the two footmen, which at once 
ridicules the manners of the great, and the ab- 
surdity of their imitators. 

Whatever defects there might be in the composi- 
tion, there were none iii the action : in this the per- 
formers showed more humour than I had fancied 
them capable of. Mr. Palmer and Mr. King were 
entirely what they desired to represent ; and Mrs. 
Clive (but what need I talk of her, since, without 
the least exaggeration, she has more true humour 
than any actor or actress upon the English or any 
other stage I have seen) — she, I say, did the part 
all the justice it was capable of: and, upon the 
whole, a farce, which has only this to recommend 
it, that the author took his plan from the volume 
of nature, by the sprightly manner in which it was 
performed, was for one night a tolerable entertain- 
ment. This much may be said in its vindication, 
that people of fashion seemed more pleased in the 
representation than the subordinate ranks of people. 



UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT. 

Every age seems to have its favourite pursuits, 
which serve to amuse the idle, and to relieve the 
attention of the industrious. Happy the man who 
is born excellent in the pursuit in vogue, and whose 
genius seems adapted to the times in which he 
lives. How many do we see, who might have ex- 
celled in arts or sciences, and who seem furnished 
with talents equal to the greatest discoveries, had 
the road not been already beaten by their prede- 
cessors, and nothing left for them except trifles to 
discover, while others of very moderate abilities be- 
come famous, because happening to be first in the 
reigning pursuit. 

Thus, at the renewal of letters in Europe, the 
taste was not to compose new books, but to com- 
ment on the old ones. It was not to be expected 
that new books should be written, when there were 



so many of the ancients either not known or not 
understood. It was not reasonable to attempt new 
conquests, while they had such an extensive region 
lying waste for want of cultivation. At that pe- 
riod, criticism and erudition were the reigning stu- 
dies of the times ; and he who had only an inven- 
tive genius, might have languished in hopeless ob- 
scurity. When the writers of antiquity were sufli- 
ciently explained and known, the learned set about 
imitating them : hence proceeded the number of 
Latin orators, poets, and historians, in the reigns 
of Clement the Seventh and Alexander the Sixth. 
This passion for antiquity lasted for many years, 
to the utter exclusion of every other pursuit, till 
some began to find, that those works which were 
imitated from nature, were more like the writings 
of antiquity, than even those written in express 
imitation. It was then modern language began to 
be cultivated with assiduity, and our poets and ora- 
tors poured forth their woiiders upon the world. 

As writers become more numerous, it is natural 
for readers to become more indolent ; whence must 
necessarily arise a desire of attaining knowledge 
with the greatest possible ease. No science or art 
offers its instruction and amusement in so obvious 
a manner as statuary and painting. Hence we 
see, that a desire of cultivating those arts generally 
attends the decline of science. Thus the finest 
statues and the most beautiful paintings of an- 
tiquity, preceded but a little the absolute decay of 
every other science. The statues of Antoninus, 
Commodus, and their contemporaries, are the finest 
productions of the chisel, and appeared but just be- 
fore learning was destroyed by comment, criticism, 
and barbarous invasions. 

What happened in Rome may probably be the 
case with us at home. Our nobility are now more 
solicitous in patronizing painters and sculptors than 
those of any other pohte profession ; and from the 
lord, who has his gallery, down to the 'prentice, 
who has his twopenny copper-plate, all are ad- 
mirers of this art. The great, by their caresses, 
seem insensible to all other merit but that of the 
pencil ; and the vulgar buy every book rather from 
the excellence of the sculptor than the writer. 

How happy were it now, if men of real excel- 
lence in that profession were to arise ! Were the 
painters of Italy now to appear, who once wander- 
ed like beggars from one city to another, and pro- 
duce their almost breathing figures, what rewards 
might they not expect! But many of them lived 
without rewards, and therefore rewards alone will 
never produce their equals. We have often found 
the great exert themselves not only without pro- 
motion, but in spite of opposition. We have often 
found them flourishing, like medicinal plants, in a 
region of savageness and barbarity, their excellence 
unknown, and their virtues unheeded. 

They who have seen the paintings of Caravagio 



454 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



are sensible of the surprising impression they make 
bold, swelling, terrible to the last degree ; all seems 
animated, and speaks him among the foremost of 
his profession ; yet this man's fortune and his fame 
seemed ever in opposition to each other. 

Unknowing how to flatter the great, he was 
driven from city to city in the utmost indigence, 
and might truly be said to paint for his bread. 

Having one day insulted a person of distinction, 
who refused to pay him all the respect which he 
thought his due, he was obliged to leave Rome, 
and travel on foot, his usual method of going his 
journeys down into the country, without either 
money or friends to subsist him. 

After he had travelled in this manner as long as 
his strength would permit, faint with famine and 
fatigue, he at last called at an obscure inn by the 
way -side. The host knew, by the appearance of 
his guest, his indifferent circumstances, and refused 
to furnish him a dinner without previous payment. 

As Caravagio was entirely destitute of money, 
he took down the innkeeper's sign, and painted it 
anew for his dinner. 



upon this subject, instead of indulging each his 
particular and whimsical system, it had been much 
better if the writers on this subject had treated it 
in a more scientific manner, repressed all the sal- 
lies of imagination, and given us the result of 
their observations with didactic simplicity. Upon 
this subject the smallest errors are of the most dan- 
gerous consequence ; and the author should ven- 
ture the imputation of stupidity upon a topic, 
where his slightest deviations may tend to injure 
the rising generation. 

I shall therefore throw out a few thoughts upon 
this subject, which have not been attended to by 
others, and shall dismiss all attempts to please, 
while I study only instruction. 

The manner in which our youth of London are 
at present educated is, some in free-schools in the 
city, but the far greater number in boarding-schools 
about town. The parent justly consults the 
health of his child, and finds an education in the 
country tends to promote this much more than a 
continuance in the town. Thus far they are 
riffht : if there were a possibility of having even 



Thus refreshed, he proceeded on his journey, our free-schools kept a little out of town, it would 



and left the innkeeper not quite satisfied with this 
method of payment. Some company of distinc- 
tion, however, coming soon after, and struck with 
the beauty of the new sign, bought it at an ad 
vanced price, and astonished the innkeeper with 
their generosity : he was resolved, therefore, to get 
as many signs as possible drawn by the same artist, 
as he found he could sell them to good advantage ; 
•and accordingly set out after Caravagio, in order 
to bring him back. It was nightfall before he came 
up to the place where the unfortunate Caravagio 
lay dead by the roadside, overcome by fatigue, re- 
sentment, and despair. 



THE BEE, No. VI. 



Saturday, November 10, 1759. 



ON EDUCATION. 
to the author of the bee. 

Sir, 

As few subjects are more interesting to society, 
so few have been more frequently written upon than 
the education of youth. Yet is it not a little sur- 
prising, that it should have been treated almost by 
all in a declamatory manner ? They have insisted 
largely on the advantages that result from it, both 
to the individual and to society, and have expatiated 
in the praise of what none have ever been so hardy 
as to call in question. 

Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues 



certainly conduce to the health and vigour of per- 
haps the mind, as well as of the body. It may be 
thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found 
by experience, that they who have spent all their 
lives in cities, contract not only an effeminacy of 
habit, but even of thinking. 

But when I have said, that the boarding-schools 
are preferable to free-schools, as being in the coun- 
try, this is certainly the only advantage I can allow 
them, otherwise it is impossible to conceive the 
ignorance of those who take upon them the im- 
portant trust of education. Is any man unfit for 
any of the professions 7 he finds his last resource 
in setting up school. Do any become bankrupts in 
trade? they still set up a boarding-school, and drive 
a trade this way, when all others fail : nay, I have 
been told of butchers and barbers, who have turn- 
ed schoolmasters ; and, more surprising still, made 
fortunes in their new profession. 

Could we think ourselves in a country of civil- 
ized people ; could it be conceived that we have 
any regard for posterity, when such are permitted 
to take the charge of the morals, genius, and health 
of those dear little pledges, who may one day he 
the guardians of the liberties of Europe, and who 
may serve as the honour and bulwark of their aged 
parents? The care of our children, is it below the 
state 7 is it fit to indulge the caprice of the igno- 
rant with the disposal of their children in this par- 
ticular 7 For the state to take the charge of all its 
children, as in Persia and Sparta, might at present 
be inconvenient; but surely with great ease it 
might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all 
members of society, I do not know a more useful, 
or a more honourable one, than a schoolmaster ; 



THE BEE. 



455 



at the same time that I do not see any more ge- 
nerally despised, or whose talents are so ill re- 
warded. 

Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be aug- 
mented from a diminution of useless sinecures, 
how might it turn to the advantage of this people ; 
a people whom, without flattery, I may in other 
respects term the wisest and greatest upon earth ! 
But while I would reward the deserving, I would 
dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employ- 
ment : in short, I would make the business of a 
schoolmaster every way more respectable, by in- 
creasing their salaries, and admitting only men of 
proper abilities. 

T here are already schoolmasters appointed, and 
they have some small salaries ; but where at pre- 
sent there is but one schoolmaster appointed, there 
should at least be two ; and wherever the salary is 
at present twenty pounds, it should be a hundred 
Do we give immoderate benefices to those who 
instruct ourselves, and shall we deny even subsist 
ence to those who instruct our children ? Every 
member of society should be paid in proportion as 
he is necessary : and I will be bold enough to say, 
that schoolmasters in a state are more necessary 
than clergymen, as children stand in more need of 
instruction than their parents. 

But instead of this, as I have already observed, 
we send them to board in the country to the most 
ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But 
lest the ignorance of the master be not sufficient, 
the child is generally consigned to the usher. 
This is generally some poor needy animal, little 
superior to a footman either in learning or spirit, 
invited to his place by an advertisement, and kept 
there merely from his being of a complying dispo- 
sition, and making the children fond of him. 
"You give your child to be educated to a slave," 
says a philosopher to a rich man ; " instead of one 
slave, you will then have two." 

It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing 
their children in one of these houses, would ex- 
amine the abilities of the usher as well as of the 
master : for, whatever they are told to the contrary, 
the usher is generally the person most employed in 
their education. If, then, a gentleman, upon put- 
ting out his son to one of these houses, sees the 
usher disregarded by the master, he may depend 
upon it, that he is equally disregarded by the boys ; 
the truth is, in spite of all their endeavours to 
please, they are generally the laughing-stock of 
the school. Every trick is played upon the usher ; 
the oddity of his manners, his dress, or his lan- 
guage, is a fund of eternal ridicule ; the master 
himself now and then cannot avoid joining in the 
laugh, and the poor wretch, eternally resenting 
this ill-usage, seems to live in a state of war with 
all the family. This is a very proper person, is it 



not, to give children a relish for learning? They 
must esteem learning very much, when they sea 
its professors used with such ceremony ! If the 
usher be despised, the father may be assured his 
child will never be properly instructed. 

But let me suppose, that there are some schools 
without these inconveniences ; where the master 
and ushers are men of learning, reputation, and 
assiduity. If there are to be found such, they 
cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy 
will learn more true wisdom in a public school in 
a year, than by a private education in five. It is not 
from masters, but from their equals, youth learrt 
a knowledge of the world ; the little tricks they 
play each other, the punishment that frequently 
attends the commission, is a just picture of the 
great world, and all the ways of men are practised 
in a public school in miniature. It is true, a child 
is early made acquainted with some vices in a school, 
but it is better to know these when a boy, than be 
first taught them when a man, for their novelty 
then rhay have irresistible charms. 

In a public education boys early learn tempe- 
rance ; and if the parents and friends would give 
them less money upon their usual visits, it would 
be much to their advantage, since it may justly be 
said, that a great part of their disorders arise from 
surfeit, plus occi^it gula quam gladius. And 
now I am come to the article of health, it may not 
be amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke and some 
others have advised, that children should be inured 
to cold, to fatigue, and hardship, from their youth ; 
but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent physician. 
Habit, I grant, has great influence over our con- 
stitutions, but we have not precise ideas upon this 
subject. 

We know that among savages, and even among 
our peasants, there are found children born with 
such constitutions, that they cross rivers by swim- 
ming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of 
sleep, to a surprising degree ; that when they hap- 
pen to fall sick, they are cured without the help 
of medicine, by nature alone. Such examples are 
adduced to persuade us to imitate their manner of 
education, and accustom ourselves betimes to sup- 
port the same fatigues. But had these gentlemen 
considered first, that those savages and peasants 
are generally not so long-Uved as they who have 
led a more indolent life ; secondly, that the more 
laborious the life is, the less populous is the coun- 
try : had they considered, that what physicians 
call the stamina vitce, by fatigue and labour become 
rigid, and thus anticipate old age : that the number 
who survive those rude trials, bears no proportion 
to those who die in the experiment: had these 
things been properly considered, they would not 
have thus extolled an education begun in fatigue 
and hardships. Peter the Great, willing to inure 



456 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS, 



the children of his seamen to a Hfe of hardship, 
ordered that they should drink only sea-water, but 
they unfortunately all died under the experiment. 

But while I would exclude all unnecessary la- 
bours, yet still I would recommend temperance in 
the highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high 
seasoning, noticing given children to force an ap- 
petite, as little sugared or salted provisions as pos- 
sible, though never so pleasing ; but milk, morning 
and night, should be their constant food. This diet 
would make them more healthy than any of those 
slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a 
boarding-school ; besides, it corrects any consump- 
tive habits, not unfrequently found amongst the 
children of city parents. 

As boys should be educated with temperance, 
so the first greatest lesson that should be taught 
them is, to admire frugality. It is by the exercise 
of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to be use- 
ful members of society. It is true, lectures con- 
tinually repeated upon this subject may make some 
boys, when they grow up, run into an extreme, 
and become misers ; but it were well, had we more 
misei-s than we have among us. I know few- 
characters more useful in society ; for a man's 
having a larger or smaller share of money lying 
useless by him no way injures the commonwealth ; 
since, should every miser now exhaust his stores, 
this might make gold more plenty, but it would not 
increase the commodities or pleasures of hfe ; they 
would still remain as they are at present : it mat- 
ters not, therefore, whether men are misers or not, 
if they be only frugal, laborious, and fill the station 
they have chosen. If they deny themselves the 
necessaries of hfe, society is no way injm-ed by their 
folly. 

Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise 
young men of spirit, who go through a variety of 
adventures, and at last conclude a life of dissipa- 
tion, folly, and extravagance, in riches and matri- 
mony, there should be some men of wit employed 
to compose books that might equally interest the 
passions of our youth ; where such a one might be 
praised for having resisted allurements when young, 
and how he at last became lord mayor ; how he 
was married to a lady of great sense, fortune, and 
beauty : to be as explicit as possible, the old story 
of Whittington, were his cat left out, might be 
more serviceable to the tender mind, than either 
Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others, 
where frugality is the only good quahty the hero 
is not possessed of. Were our schoolmasters, if 
any of them had sense enough to draw up such a 
worlc, thus employed, it would be much more 
serviceable to their pupils than all the grammars 
and dictionaries they ma:y publish these ten years. 

Children should early be instructed in the arts, 
from which they would afterwards draw the great- 
est advantages. When the wonders of nature are 



never exposed to our view, we have no great de-. 
sire to become acquainted with those parts of learn- 
ing which pretend to account for the phenomena. 
One of the ancients complains, that as soon as 
young men have left school, and are obliged to con- 
verse in the world, they fancy themselves transport- 
ed into a new region. Ut cum in forum venerint 
existiraent se in aliam terrarum orbem delatos. 
We should early therefore instruct them in the ex- 
perimejits, if I may so express it, of knowledge, 
and leave to maturer age the accounting for the 
causes. But, instead of that, when boys begin 
natural philosophy in colleges, they have not the 
least curiosity for those parts of the science which 
are proposed for their instruction ; they have never 
before seen the phenomena, and consequently have 
no curiosity to learn the reasons. Might natural 
philosophy therefore be made their pastime in 
school, by this means it would in college becorne 
their amusement. 

In several of the machines now in use, there 
would be ample field both for instruction and 
amusement : the different sorts of the phosphorus, 
the artificial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the ex- 
periments upon the rarefaction and weight of the 
air, and those upon elastic bodies, might employ 
their idle hours, and none should be called from 
play to see such experiments but such as thought 
proper. At first then it would be sufficient if the 
instruments, and the effects of their combination, 
were only shown ; the causes should be deferred to 
a maturer age, or to those times when natural curi- 
osity prompts us to discover the wonders of nature. 
Man is placed in this world as a spectator ; when 
he is tired with wondering at all the novelties about 
him, and not till then, does he desire to be made 
acquainted with the causes that create those won- 
ders. 

What I have observed with regard to natural 
philosophy, I would extend to every other science 
whatsoever. We should teach them as many of 
the facts as were possible, and defer the causes un- 
til they seemed of themselves desirous of knowing 
them. A mind thus leaving school stored with all 
the simple experiences of science, would be the 
fittest in the world for the college course; and 
though such a youth might not appear so bright, 
or so talkative, as those who had learned the real 
principles and causes of some of the sciences, yet 
he would make a wiser man, and would retain a 
more lasting passion for letters, than he who was 
early burdened with the disagreeable institution of 
effect and cause. 

In history, such stories alone should be laid be- 
fore them as might catch the imagination : instead 
of this, they are too frequently obliged to toil through 
the four empires, as they are called, where their 
memories are burdened by a number of disgusting 
names, that destroy all their future relish for our 



THE BEE. 



457 



best historians, who may be termed the truest 
teachers of wisdom. 

Every species of flattery should be carefully 
avoided ; a bo}^, who happens to say a sprightly 
thing, is generally applauded so much, that he hap- 
pens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his life 
after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and be- 
comes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, footmen, 
and such, should therefore be driven away as much 
as possible. I was even going to add, that the 
mother herself should stifle her pleasure, or her 
vanity, when little master happens to say a good 
or smart thing. Those modest lubberly boys who 
seem to want spirit, generally go through their 
business with more ease to themselves, and more 
satisfaction to their instructors. 

There has of late a gentleman appeared, who 
thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect 
education. That bold male eloquence, which often 
without pleasing convinces, is generally destroyed 
by such institutions. Convincing eloquence, how- 1 
ever, is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor 
than the most florid harangue or the most pathetic 
tones that can be imagined;' and the man who is 
thoroughly convinced himself, who understands his 
subject, and the language he speaks in, will be 
more apt to silence opposition, than he who studies 
the force of his periods, and fills our ears with 
sounds, while our minds are destitute of convic- 
tion. 

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the 
decline of the Roman empire, when they had been 
long instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods 
were so harmonious, as that they could be sung as 
well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure must 
one of these gentlemen cut, thus measuring syl- 
lables, and weighing words, when he should plead 
the cause of his chent ! Two architects were once 
candidates for the building a certain temple at 
Athens ; the first harangued the crowd very learn- 
edly upon the different orders of architecture, and 
showed them in what manner the temple should 
be built ; the other, who got up to speak after him, 
only observed, that what his brother had spoken 
he could do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. 
To teach men to be orators, is little less than to 
teach them to be poets ; and, for my part, I should 
have too great a regard for my child, to wish him 
a manor only in a bookseller's shop. 

Another passion which the present age is apt to 
run into, is to make children learn all things ; the 
languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and 
painting. Thus the child soon becomes a talker 
in all, but a master in none. He thus acquires a 
superficial fondness for every thing, and only 
shows his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit 
his skill. 

As I deliver my thoughts without method or 
connexion, so the reader must not be surprised to 



find me, once more addressing schoolmasters on the 
present method of teaching the learned languages, 
which is commonly by literal translations. 1 would 
ask such, if they were to travel a journey, whether 
those parts of the road in which they found the 
greatest difficulties would not be most strongly re- 
membered? Boys who, if I may continue the al- 
lusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the 
assistance of a translation, can have but a very 
slight acquaintance either with the author or his 
language. It is by the exercise of the mind alone 
that a language is learned ; but a literal translation 
on- the opposite page leaves no exercise for the 
memory at all. The boy will not be at the fatigue 
of remembering, when his doubts are at once satis- 
fied by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every 
word to be sought from a dictionary, the learner 
would atttempt to remember, in order to save him 
the trouble of looking out for it for the future. 

To continue in the same pedantic strain, though 
no schoolmaster, of all the various grammars now 
taught in the schools about town, 1 would recom- 
mend only the old common one; I have forgot 
whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The 
others may be improvements ; but such improve- 
ments seem to me only mere grammatical niceties, 
no way influencing the learner, but perhaps load- 
ing him with trifling subtleties, which at a proper 
age he must be at some pains to forget. 

Whatever pains a master may take to make the 
learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he 
may depend upon it, it will be at first extremely 
unpleasant. The rudiments of every language, 
therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amuse- 
ment. Attempting to deceive children into in- 
struction of this kind, is only deceiving ourselves ; 
and I know no passion capable of conquering a 
child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon has said 
it before me ; nor is there any more certain, though 
perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the proverb 
in verse, too well known to repeat on the present 
occasion. It is very probable that parents are told 
of some masters who never use the rod, and conse- 
quently are thought the properest instructors for 
their children ; but though tenderness is a requisite 
quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the 
truest tenderness in well-timed correction. 

Some have justly observed, that all passion 
should be banished on this terrible occasion ; but, I 
know not how, there is a frailty attending human 
nature, that few masters are able to keep their 
temper whilst they correct. I knew a good-natur- 
ed man, who was sensible of his own weakness in 
this respect, and consequently had recourse to the 
following expedient to prevent his passions from be- 
ing engaged, yet at the same time administer jus- 
tice with impartiality. Whenever any of his pu- 
pils committed a fault, he summoned a jury of his 
peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next 



458 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



classes to him; his accusers stood forth; he had a 
liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or 
two more had a liberty of pleading against him : 
■when found guilty by the panel, he was consigned 
to the footman who attended in the house, who had 
previous orders to punish, but with lenity. By 
this means the master took off the odium of pun- 
ishment from himself; and the footman, between 
whom and the boys there could not be even the 
slightest intimacy, was placed in such a light as to 
be shunned by every boy in the school.* 

And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you will 
think me some pedagogue, willing, by a well-timed 
puff, to increase the reputation of his own school ; 
but such is not the case. The regard I have for 
society, for those tender minds who are the objects 
of the present essay, is the only motive I have for 
offering those thoughts, calculated not to surprise 
by their novelty, or the elegance of composition, but 
merely to remedy some defects which have crept 
into the present system of school-education. If 
this letter should be inserted, perhaps I may trouble 
you in my next with some thoughts upon a uni- 
versity education, not with an intent to exhaust 
the subject, but to amend some few abuses. I am, 
etc. 



ON THE INSTABILITY OP WORLDLY 
GRANDEUR. 

An alehouse-keeper near Islington, who had 
long lived at the sign of the French King, upon 
the commencement of the last war with France 
pulled down his old sign, and put up the Ctueen 
of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face 
and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale till she 
was no longer the favourite of his customers; he 
changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the 
King of Prussia, who may probably be changed in 
turn for the next great man that shall be set up for 
vulgar admiration. 

Our publican in this imitates the great exactly, 
who deal out their figures one after the other to 
the gaping crowd beneath them. When we have 
sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and 
another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds 
its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased with 
variety. 

I must own I have such an indifferent opinion 
of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that 
merit which raises their shout; at least I am cer- 
tain to find those great, and sometimes good, men. 

This dissertation was thus far introduced into the volume 
of Essays, afterwards publislied by Dr. Goldsmitli, with tlie 
following observation: 

" This treatise was published before Rousseau's Emilius : 
if there be a similitude in any one instance, it is hoped the au- 
Ihor of the present essay will not be termed a plagiarist." 



who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made 
worse by it ; and history has too frequently taught 
me, that the head which has grown this day giddy 
with the roar of the million, has the very next been 
fixed upon a pole. 

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in 
the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just 
evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen 
busy in the market-place in pulling down from a 
gibbet a figure, which had been designed to repre- 
sent himself. There were also some knocking down 
a neighbouring statue of one of the Orsini family, 
with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexan- 
der's effigy, when taken down, in its place. It is pos- 
sible a man who knew less of the world would have 
condemned the adulation of those bare-faced flat- 
terers; but Alexander seemed pleased at their 
zeal, and turning to Borgia his son, said with a 
smile, Vides, Tnijili, quam, leve discrimen patibu- 
lum inter et statuam. "You see, my son, the 
small difference between a gibbet and a statue." 
If the great could be taught any lesson, this might 
serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation 
their glory stands, which is built upon popular ap- 
plause, for as such praise what seems like merit, 
they as quickly condemn what has only the ap- 
pearance of guilt. 

Popular glory is a perfect coquette; her lovers 
must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every ca- 
price, and perhaps at last be jilted into the bargain. 
True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman 
of sense; her admirers must play no tricksj they 
feel no great anxiety ; for they are sure in the end 
of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. 
When Swifl used to appear in public, he general- 
ly had the mob shouting in his train. " Pox take 
these fools," he would saj^, " how much joy might 
all this bawhng give my Lord Mayor!" 

We have seen those virtues which have, while 
living, retired from the public eye, generally trans- 
mitted to posterity as the truest objects of admira- 
tion and praise. Perhaps the character of the late 
Duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even 
above that of his more talked-of predecessor ; since 
an assemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues 
is far superior to those vulgarly called the great 
ones. I must be pardoned for this short tribute to 
the memory of a man, who, while living, would as 
much detest to receive any thing that wore the ap- 
pearance of flattery, as I should to offer it. 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of 
the beaten road of common-place, except by illus- 
trating it, rather by the assistance of my memory 
than my judgment, and instead of making reflec- 
tions, by telling a story. 

A Chinese, who had long studied the works 
of Confucius, who knew the characters of fourteen 
thousand words, and could read a great part of 
every book that came in his way, once took it into 



THE BEE. 



459 



his head to travel into Europe, and observe the 
customs of a people whom he thought not very 
much inferior even to his own countrymen, in the 
arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his ar- 
rival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally 
led him to a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could 
■speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller 
for the works of the immortal Ilixof'ou. The book- 
seller assured him he had never heard the book 
mentioned before. " What ! have you never heard 
of that immortal poetT' returned the other, much 
surprised ; that light of the eyes, that favourite of 
kings, that rose of perfection ! I suppose you 
know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second 
cousin to the moon?" — "Nothing at all, indeed, 
sir," returned the other. " Alas !" cries our tra- 
veller, "to what purpose, thenj has one of these 
fasted to death, and the other offered himself upas 
sacrifice to the Tartarean enemy, to gain a renown 
which has never travelled beyond the precincts of 
China !" 

There is scarcel}^ a village in Europe, and not 
one university, that is not thus furnished with its 
little great men. The head of a petty corporation, 
who opposes the designs of a prince who would 
tyrannically force his subjects to save their best 
clothes for Sundays; the puny pedant who finds 
one undiscovered property in the polype, describes 
an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and 
whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature 
only in dijtail ; the rhymer who makes smooth 
verses, and paints to our imagination when he 
should only speak to our hearts ; all equally fancy 
themselves wallcing forward to immortality, and 
desire the crowd behind them to look on. The 
crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philoso- 
pher, and poet, are shouted in their train. Where 
was there ever so much merit seen 1 no times so 
important as our own ! ages yet unborn shall gaze 
with wonder and applause ! To such music the 
important pygmy moves forward, bustling and 
swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a 
storm. 

I have lived to see generals, who once had crowds 
hallooing after them wherever they went, who 
were bepraised by newspapers and magazines, 
those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they 
have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce- 
ly even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago, 
the herring fishery employed aU Grub-street ; it 
was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden 
of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of 
gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to sup- 
ply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. 
At present we hear no more of al! this. We 
have fished up very httle gold that I can learn ; nor 
do we furnish the world with herrings as was ex- 
pected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and 
we shallfind all our expe-ctations a herring fishery. 



SOME ACCOUNT OF THE ACADE- 
MIES OF ITALY. 

There is not, perhaps, a country in Europe, in 
which learning is so fast upon the decline as in 
Italy ; yet not one in which there are such a num- 
ber of academies instituted for its support. There is 
scarcely a considerable town in the whole country, 
wliich has not one or two institutions of this na- 
ture, where the learned, as they are pleased to call 
themselves, meet to harangue, to compliment each 
other, and praise the utility of their institution. 

Jarchius has taken the trouble to give us a list 
of those clubs or academies, which amount to five 
hundred and fifty, each distinguished by somewhat 
whimsical in the name. The academies of Bo- 
logna, for instance, are divided into the Abbando- 
nati, the Ausiosi, Ociosio, Arcadi, Confusi. Dubbi- 
osi, etc. There are few of these who have not 
published their transactions, and scarcely a member 
who is not looked upon as the most famous man in 
the world, at home. 

Of all those societies, I know of none whose 
works are worth being known out of the precincts 
of the city in which they were written, except the 
Cicalata Academia (or, as we might express it, 
the Tickling Society) of Florence. I have just 
now before me a manuscript oration, spoken by the 
late Tomaso Crudeli at that society, which will at 
once serve to give a better picture of the manner 
in which men of wit amuse themselves in that 
countr}', than any thing I could say upon the occa- 
sion. The oration is this : 

" The younger the nymph, my dear companions, 
the more happy the lover. From fourteen to seven- 
teen, you are sure of finding love for love ; Irom 
seventeen to twenty-one, there is always a mixture 
of interest and affection. But when that period is 
past, no longer expect to receive, but to buy : no 
longer expect a nymph who gives, but who sells 
her favours. At this age, every glance is taught its 
duty ; not a look, not a sigh without design ; the 
lady, like a skilful warrior, aims at the heart of 
another, while she shields her own from danger. 

" On the contrary, at fifteen you may expect 
nothing but simplicity, innocence, and nature. 
The passions are then sincere ; the soul seems 
seated in the lips ; the dear object feels present hap- 
piness, without being anxious for the future ; her 
eyes brighten if her lover approaches ; her smiles 
are borrowed from the Graces, and her very mis- 
takes seem to complete her desires. 

" Lucretia was just sixteen. The rose and lily 
took possession of her face, and her bosom, by its 
hue and its coldness, seemed covered with snow. 
So much beauty and so much virtue seldom want 
admirers. Orlandino, a youth of sense and merit, 
was among the number. He had long languished 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



for an opportunity of declaring his passion, when 
Cupid, as if willing to indulge his happiness, 
brought the charming young couple by mere acci- 
dent to an arbour, where every prying eye but love 
was absent. Orlandino talked of the sincerity of 
his passion, and mixed flattery with his addresses ; 
but it was all in vain. The nymph was pre-en- 
gaged, and had long devoted to Heaven those 
charms for which he sued. " My dear Orlandino," 
said she, " you know 1 have long been dedicated 
to St. Catharine, and to her belongs all that lies 
below my girdle ; all that is above, you may freely 
possess, but farther I can not, must not comply. 
The vow is passed ; I wish it were undone, but 
now it is impossible." You may conceive, my 
companions, the embarrassment our young lovers 
felt upon this occasion. They kneeled to St. Ca- 
tharine, and though both despaired, both implored, 
her assistance. Their tutelar saint was entreated 
to show some expedient, by which both might con- 
tinue to love, and yet both be happy. Their peti- 
tion was sincere. St. Catharine was touched with 
compassion ; for lo, a miracle ! Lucretia's girdle 
unloosed, as if without hands; and though before 
bound round her middle, fell spontaneously dovsTi 
to her feet, and gave Orlandino the possession of all 
those beauties which lay above it." 



THE BEE, No. VII. 



Saturday, November 17, 1759. 



OP ELOaUENCE. 

Op all lands of success, that of an orator is the 
most pleasing. Upon other occasions, the applause 
we deserve is conferred in our absence, and we are 
insensible of the pleasure wc have given ; but in 
eloquence, the victory and the triumph are insepa- 
rable. We read our own glory in the face of every 
spectator ; the audience is moved ; the antagonist 
is defeated ; and the whole circle bursts into un- 
solicited applause. 

The rewards which attend excellence in this 
way are so pleasing, that numbers have written 
profeisscd treatises to teach us the art; schools have 
been established with no other intent ; rhetoric has 
taken place among the institutions, and pedants 
have ranged under proper heads, and distinguished 
with long learned names, some of the strokes of na- 
ture, or of passion, which orators have used. I say 
only some; for a folio volume could not contain all 
the figures which have been used by the truly elo- 
quent ; and scarcely a good speaker or writer, but 
makes use of some that are peculiar or new. 

Eloquence has preceded the rules of rhetoric, as 



languages have been formed before grammar. Na- 
ture renders men eloquent in great interests, or 
great passions. He that is sensibly touched, sees 
things with a very different eye from the rest of 
mankind. All nature to him becomes an object 
of comparison and metaphor, without attending to 
it; he throws Hfe into all, and inspires his audience 
with a part of his own enthusiasm. 

It has been remarked, that the lower parts of 
mankind generally express themselves most figura- 
tively, and that tropes are found in the most ordi- 
nary forms of conversation. Thus, in every lan- 
guage, the heart burns ; the courage is roused ; the 
eyes sparkle ; the spirits are cast down ; passion in- 
flames ; pride swells, and pity sinks the soul. Na- 
ture every where speaks in those strong images, 
which, from the frequency, pass unnoticed. 

Nature it is which inspires those rapturous en- 
thusiasms, those irresistible turns ; a strong passion, 
a pressing danger, calls up all the imagination, and 
gives the orator irresistible force. Thus a captain 
of the first caliphs, seeing his soldiers fly, cried out, 
"Whither do you run? the enemy are not there ! 
You have been told that the caliph is dead ; but 
God is still living. He regards the brave, and will 
reward the courageous. Advance!" 

A man, therefore, may he called eloquent, who 
transfors the -passion or senttm,ent with which he 
is moved himself into the breast of another ; and 
this definition appears the more just, as it compre- 
hends the graces of silence and of action. An in- 
timate persuasion of the truth to be proved, is the 
sentiment and passion to be transferred ; and who 
effects this, is truly possessed of the talent of elo- 
quence. 

I have called eloquence a talent, and not an art, 
as so many rhetoricians have done, as art is ac- 
quired by exercise and study, and eloquence is the 
gift of nature. Rules will never make either a 
work or a discourse eloquent ; they only serve to 
prevent faults, but not to introduce beauties; to 
prevent those passages which are truly eloquent 
and dictated by nature, from being blended with 
others which might disgust, or at least abate our 
passion. 

What we clearly conceive, says Boileau, we can 
clearly express. I may add, that what is felt with 
emotion is expressed also with the same move- 
ments ; the words arise as readily to paint our emo- 
tions, as to express our thoughts with perspicuity. 
The cool care an orator takes to express passions 
which he does not feel, only prevents his rising 
into that passion he would seem to feel. In a 
word, to feel your subject thoroughly, and to speak 
without fear, are the only rules of eloquence, pro- 
perly so called, which I can offer. Examine a 
writer of genius on the most beautiful parts of his 
work, and he will always assure you, that such 
passages are generally those which have given him 



THE BEE. 



461 



the least trouble, for they came as if by inspiration. 
To pretend that cold and didactic precepts will 
make a man eloquent, is only to prove that he is 
incapable of eloquence. 

But, as in being perspicuous it is necessary to 
have a full idea of the subject, so in being eloquent 
it is not sufficient, if I may so express it, to feel by 
halves. The orator should be strongly impressed, 
which is generally the effect of a fine and exquisite 
sensibility, and not that transient and superficial 
emotion which he excites in the greatest part of his 
audience. It is even impossible to affect the hear- 
ers in any great degree without being affected our- 
selves. In vain it will be objected, that many 
writers have had the art to inspire their readers 
with a passion for virtue, without being virtuous 
themselves ; since it may be answered, that senti- 
ments of virtue filled their minds at the time they 
were writing. They felt the inspiration strongly, 
while they praised justice, generosity, or good-na- 
ture; but, unhappily for them, these passions might 
have been discontinued, when they laid down the 
pen. In vain will it be objected again, that we 
can move without being moved, as we can convince 
without being convinced. It is much easier to de- 
ceive our reason than ourselves ; a trifling defect in 
reasoning may be overseen, and lead a man astray, 
for it requires reason and time to detect the false- 
hood ; but our passions are not easily imposed upon, 
our eyes, our ears, and every sense, are watchful to 
detect the imposture. 

No discourse can be eloquent that does not ele- 
vate the mind. Pathetic eloquence, it is true, has 
for its only object to affect ; but I appeal to men of 
sensibility, whether their pathetic feelings are not 
accompanied with some degree of elevation. We 
may then call eloquence and sublimity the same 
thing, since it is impossible to possess one without 
feeling the other. Hence it follows, that we may 
be eloquent in any language, since, no language 
refuses to paint those sentiments with which we 
are thoroughly impressed. "What is usually called 
sublimity of style, seems to be only an error. Elo- 
quence is not in the words but in the subject; and 
in great concerns, the more simply any thing is 
expressed, it is generally the more sublime. True 
eloquence does not consist, as the rhetoricians as- 
sure us, in saying great things in a sublime style, 
but in a simple style ; for there is, properly speak- 
ing, no such thing as a sublime style, the sublimity 
lies only in the things; and when they arc not so, 
the language may be turgid, affected, metaphorical, 
but not affecting. 

What can be more simply expressed than the fol- 
lowing extract from a celebrated preacher, and yet 
what was ever more sublime? Speaking of the 
small number of the elect, he breaks out thus among 
his audience: "Let me suppose that this was the 
last hour of us all ; that the heavens were opening 



over our heads ; that time was passed, and eternity 
begun ; that Jesus Christ in all his glory, that man 
of sorrows in all his glory, appeared on the tribunal, 
and that we were assembled here to receive our 
final decree of life or death eternal! Let me ask, 
impressed with terror like you, and not separating 
my lot from yours, but putting myself in the same 
situation in which we must all one day appear be- 
fore God, our judge; let me ask, if Jesus Christ 
should now appear to make the terrible separation 
of the just from the unjust, do you think the great- 
est number would be saved? Do you think the 
number of the elect would even be equal to that of 
the sinners? Do you think, if all our works were 
examined with justice, would we find ten just per- 
sons in this great assembly? Monsters of ingrati- 
tude ! would he find one? " Such passages as these 
are sublime in every language. The expression 
may be less speaking, or more indistinct, but the 
greatness of the idea still remains. In a word, we 
may be eloquent in every language and in every 
style, since elocution is only an assistant, but not 
a constituter of eloquence. 

Of what use then, will it be said, are all the pre- 
cepts given us upon this head both by the ancients 
and moderns? I answer, that they can not make 
us eloquent, but they will certainly prevent us from 
becoming ridiculous. They can seldom procure a 
single beautj', but they may banish a thousand 
faults. The true method of an orator is not to at- 
tempt always to move, always to affect, to be con- 
tinually sublime, but at proper intervals to give rest 
both to his own and the passions of his audience. 
In these periods of relaxation, or of preparation 
rather, rules may teach him to avoid any thing 
low, trivial, or disgusting. Thus criticism, proper- 
ly speaking, is intended not to assist those parts 
which are sublime, but those which are naturally 
mean and humble, which are composed with cool- 
ness and caution, and where the orator rather en- 
deavours not to offend, than attempts to please. 

I have hitherto insisted more strenuously on that 
eloquence which speaks to the passions, as it is a 
species of oratory almost unknown in England. 
At the bar it is quite discontinued, and I think with 
justice. In the senate it is used but sparingly, as 
the orator speaks to enlightened judges. But in 
the pulpit, in which the orator should chiefly ad- 
dress the vulgar, it seems strange that it should be 
entirely laid aside. 

The vulgar of England are, without exception, 
the most barbarous and the most unknowing of 
any in Europe. A great part of their ignorance 
may be chiefly ascribed to their teachers, who, with 
the most pretty gentleman-like serenity, deliver 
their cool discourses, and address the reason of men 
who have never reasoned in all their lives. They 
are told of cause and effect, of beings self-existent, 
and the universal- scale of beings. They are in- 



462 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



formed of the excellence of the Bangorian contro- 
versy, and the absurdity of an intermediate state. 
The spruce preacher reads his lucubration without 
lifting his nose from the text, and never ventures 
to earn the shame of an enthusiast. 

By this means, tliough his audience feel not one 
word of all he says, he earns, however, among his 
acquaintance, the cliaracter of a man of sense ; 
among his acquaintance only did I say? nay, even 
with lus bishop. 

The polite of every country have several motives 
to induce them to a rectitude of action; the love of 
virtue for its own sake, the shame of ofi'ending, and 
the desire of pleasuig. The vulgar have but one, 
the enforcements of religion ; and yet those who 
should push this motive home to their hearts, are 
basely found to desert their post. They speak to 
the 'squire, the pliilosopher, and the pedant ; but 
the poor, those who really want instruction, are 
left uninstructed. 

I have attended most of our pulpit orators, who, 
it must be owned, write extremely well upon the 
text they assume. To give them their due also, 
they read their sermons with elegance and pro- 
priety ; but this goes but a very short way in true 
eloquence. The speaker must be moved. In this, 
in this alone, our English divines are deficient. 
Were they to speak to a few calm dispassionate 
hearers, they certainly use the properest methods 
of address; but their audience is chiefly composed 
of the poor, who must be influenced by motives of 
reward and punishment, and whose only virtues 
lie in self-interest, or fear. 

How then are such to be addressed? not by 
studied periods or cold disquisitions; not by the la- 
bours of the head, but the honest spontaneous dic- 
tates of the heart. Neither writing a sermon with 
regular periods and all the harmony of elegant ex- 
pression; neither reading it with emphasis, pro- 
priety, and deliberation ; neither pleasing with 
metaphor, simile, or rhetorical fustian; neither 
arguing coolly, and untying consequences united in 
a priori, nor bundling up inductions a posteriori; 
neither pedantic jargon, nor academical trifling, 
can persuade the poor : writing a discourse coolly 
in the closet, then getting it by memory, and de- 
livering it on Sundays, even that will not do. 
What then is to be done? I know of no expedient 
to speak, to speak at once intelligibly, and feeling- 
ly except to understand the language. To be con- 
vinced of the truth of the object, to be perfectly ac- 
quainted with the subject in view, to prepossess 
yourself with a low opinion of your audience, and 
to do the rest extempore : by tliis means strong ex- 
pressions, new thoughts, rising passions, and the 
true declamatory style, will naturally ensue. 

Fine declamation does not consist in flowery 
periods, delicate allusions, or musical cadences ; but 
in a plain, open, loose style, where the periods are 



long and obvious ; where the same thought is ofteil 
exhibited in several points of view; all this strong 
sense, a good memory, and a small share of experi- 
ence, will furnish to every orator; and without 
these a clergyman may be called a fine preacher, a 
judicious j)reacher, and a man of good sense ; he 
may maiie his hearers admire his understanding — 
but will seldom enlighten theirs. 

When I think of the Methodist preachers among 
us, how seldom they are endued with common 
sense, and yet how often and how justly they afi'ect 
their hearers, I can not avoid saying within myself, 
had these been bred gentlemen, and been endued 
with even the meanest share of understanding, 
what might they not effect ! Did our bishops, who 
can add digidty to their expostulations, testify the 
same fervour, and entreat their hearers, as well 
as argue, what might not be the consequence ! 
The vulgar, by which I mean the bulk of mankind, 
would then have a double motive to love religion, 
first from seeing its professors honoured here, and 
next from the consequences hereafter. At present 
the enthusiasms of the poor are opposed to law; 
did law conspire with their enthusiasms, we should 
not only he the happiest nation upon earth, but the 
wisest also. 

Enthusiasm in religion, which prevails only 
among the vulgar, should be the chief object of 
politics. A society of enthusiasts, governed by 
reason among the great, is the most indissoluble, 
the most virtuous, and the most efficient of its own 
decrees that can be unagined. Every country, pos- 
sessed of any degree of strength, have had their 
enthusiasms, which ever serve as laws among the 
people. The Greeks had their Kalokagathia, the 
Romans their Amor Patrice, and we the truer and 
firmer bond of the Protestant Religion. The 
principle is the same in all ; how much then is it 
the duty of those whom the law has appointed 
teachers of this religion, to enforce its obligations, 
and to raise those enthusiasms among people, by 
which alone political society can subsist. 

From eloquence, therefore, the morals of our 
people are to expect emendation; but how little can 
they be improved by men, who get into the pulpit 
rather to show their parts than convince us of the 
truth of what they dehver; who are painfully cor 
rect in their style, musical in their tones ; where 
every sentiment, every expression seems the result 
of meditation and deep study? 

Tillotson has been commended as the model of 
pulpit eloquence ; thus far he should be imitated, 
where he generally strives to convince rather than 
to please; but to adopt his long, dry, and some- 
times tedious discussions, wliich serve to amuse 
only divines, and are utterly neglected by the gene- 
rality of mankind ; to praise the intricacy of his 
periods, which are too long to be spoken ; to con- 
tinue his cool phlegmatic manner of enforcing 



THE BEE. 



463 



every truth, is certainly erroneous. As I said be- 
fore, the good preacher should adopt no model, 
write no sermons, study no periods; let him but 
understand his subject, the language he speaks, 
and be convinced of the truth he delivers. It is 
amazing to what heights eloquence of this kind 
may reach! This is that eloquence the ancients re- 
presented as lightning, bearing down every op- 
poser; this the power which has turned whole as- 
semblies into astonishment, admiration, and awe ; 
that is described by the torrent, the flame, and 
every other instance of irresistible impetuosity. 

But to attempt such noble heights belongs only 
to the truly great, or the truly good. To discard 
the lazy manner of reading sermons, or speaking 
sermons by rote ; to set up singly against the op- 
position of men who are attached to their own er- 
rors, and to endeavour to be great, instead of being 
prudent, are qualities we seldom see united. A 
minister of the Church of England, who may be 
possessed of good sense, and some hopes of prefer- 
ment, will seldom give up such substantial advan- 
tages for the empty pleasure of improving society 
By his present method, he is liked by his friends 
admired by his dependants, not displeasing to his 
bishop ; he lives as well, eats and sleeps as well, as 
if a real orator, and an eager assertor of his mis- 
sion : he will hardly, therefore, venture all this to 
be called perhaps an enthusiast ; nor will he de- 
part from customs established by the brotherhood, 
when, by such a conduct, he only singles himself 
out for their contempt. 



CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED. 

What, say some, can give us a more contempti- 
ble idea of a large state than to find it mostly gov- 
erned by custom ; to have few written laws, and no 
boundaries to mark the jurisdiction between the 
senate and the peoplel Among the number who 
speak in this manner is the great Montesquieu, 
who asserts that every nation is free in proportion 
to the number of its written laws, and seems to 
hint at a despotic and arbitrary conduct in the pre- 
sent king of Prussia, who has abridged the laws 
of his country into a very short compass. 

As Tacitus and Montesquieu happen to differ 
in sentiment upon a subject of so much importance 
(for the Roman expressly asserts that the state is 
generally vicious in proportion to the number of its 
laws,) it will not be amiss to examine it a little 
more minutely, and see whether a state which, like 
England, is burdened with a multiplicity of written 
laws; or which, like Switzerland, Geneva, and 
some other repubhcs, is governed by custom and 
the determination of the judge, is best. 

And to prove the superiority of custom to writ- 
ten law, we shall at least find history conspiring. 



Custom, or the traditional observance of the practice 
of their forefathers, was what directed the Romans 
as well in their public as private determinations. 
Custom was ajipealed to in pronouncing sentence 
against a criminal, where part of the formulary was 
more ma jorum. So Sallust, spealdng of the expul- 
sion of Tarquin, says, mutate more, and not lege 
mulato; and Virgil, pacisque imponere marevi. So 
that, in those times of the empire in which the 
people retained their liberty, they were governed by 
custom ; when they sunk into oppression and ty- 
ranny, they were restrained by new laws, and the 
IslWS of tradition abolished. 

As getting the ancients on our side is half a vic- 
tory, it will not be amiss to fortify the argument 
with an observation of Chrysostom's; "That the 
enslaved are the fittest to be governed by laws, 
and free men by custom." Custom partakes of the 
nature of parental injunction; it is kept by the 
people themselves, and observed with a willing 
obedience. The observance of it must therefore 
be a mark of freedom ; and, coming originally to 
a state from the reverenced founders of its liberty, 
will be an encouragement and assistance to it in 
the defence of that blessing : but a conquered peo- 
ple, a nation of slaves, must pretend to none of this 
freedom, or these happy distinctions; having by 
degeneracy lost all right to their brave forefathers' 
free institutions, their masters will in a policy take 
the forfeiture ; and the fixing a conquest must be 
done by giving laws, which may every moment 
serve to remind the people enslaved of their con- 
querors ; nothing being more dangerous than to 
trust a late subdued people with old customs, that 
presently upbraid their degeneracy, and provoke 
them to revolt. 

The wisdom of the Roman republic in their 
veneration for custom, and backwardness to intro- 
duce a new law, was perhaps the cause of their 
long continuance, and of the virtues of which they 
have set the world so many examples. But to show 
in what that wisdom consists, it may be proper to 
observe, that the benefit of new written laws is- 
merely confined to the consequences of their obser- 
vance ; but customary laws, keeping up a venera- 
tion for the founders, engage men in the imitation 
of their virtues as well as policy. To this may be 
ascribed the religious regard the Romans paid to 
their forefathers' memory, and their adhering for 
so many ages to the practice of the same virtues, 
which nothing contributed more to efface than the 
introduction of a voluminous body of new laws over 
the neck of venerable custom. 

The simplicity, conciseness, and antiquity of 
custom, give an air of majesty and immutability 
that inspires awe and veneration ; but new laws 
are too apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and inde- 
terminate, whence must necessarily arise neglect, 
contempt, and ignorance. 



464 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



As every human institution is subject to gross 
imperfections, so laws must necessarily be liable to 
the same inconveniencies, and their defects soon 
discovered. Thus, through the wreakness of one 
part, all the rest are liable to be brought into con- 
tempt But such weaknesses in a custom, for 
very obvious reasons, evade an examination ; be- 
sides, a friendly prej udice always stands up in their 
favour. 

But let us suppose a new law to be perfectly 
equitable and necessary ; yet if the procurers of it 
have betrayed a conduct that confesses by-ends and 
.private motives, the disgust to the circumstances 
disposes us, unreasonably indeed, to an irreverence 
of the law itself; but we are indulgently blind to 
the most visible imperfections of an old custom. 
Though we perceive the defects ourselves, yet we 
remain persuaded, that our wise forefathers had 
good reason for what they did ; and though such 
motives no longer continue, the benefit will still go 
along with the observance, though we do not know 
how. It is thus the Roman lawyers speak : Non 
omniuvi, que a majcrribus constifuta sunt, ratio 
reddi protest, et ideo rationes eorum que constitu- 
untur inquiri non oportet, alioquin multa ex his 
qucB certa sunt suhvertuntur. 

Those laws which preserve to themselves the 
greatest love and observance, must needs be best ; 
but custom, as it executes itself, must be necessari- 
ly superior to written laws in this respect, which 
are to be executed by another. Thus, nothing can 
be more certain, than that numerous written laws 
are a sign of a degenerate community, and are fre- 
quently not the consequences of vicious morals in a 
state, but the causes. 

Hence we see how much greater benefit it would 
be to the state, rather to abridge than increase its 
laws. We every day find them increasing acts and 
reports, which may be termed the acts of judges, are 
every day becoming more voluminous, and loading 
the subject with new penalties. 

Laws ever increase in number and severity, un- 
til they at length are strained so tight as to break 
themselves. Such was the case of the latter em- 
pire, whose laws were at length become so strict, 
that the barbarous invaders did not bring servitude 
but liberty. 



OF THE PRIDE AND LUXURY OP THE 
MIDDLING CLASS OP PEOPLE. 

Of aU the follies and absurdities under which 
this great metropolis labours, there is not one, I 
believe, that at present appears in a more glaring 
and ridiculous light, than the pride and luxury of 
the middhng class of people. Their eager desire 
of being seen in a sphere far above their capacities 
and circumstances, is daily, nay hourly instanced, 



by the prodigious numbers of mechanics who flock 
to the races, gaming-tables, brothels, and all pub- 
lic diversions this fashionable town affords. 

You shall see a grocer, or a tallow-chandler, 
sneak from behind the counter, clap on a laced 
coat and a bag, fly to the E O table, throw away 
fifty pieces with some sharping man of quality ; 
while his industrious wife is selling a pennyworth 
of sugar, or a pound of candles, to support her 
fashionable spouse in his extravagances. 

I was led into this reflection by an odd adven- 
ture which happened to me the other day at Epsom 
races, whither I went, not through any desire, I do 
assure you, of laying bets or winning thousands, 
but at the earnest request of a friend, who had 
long indulged the curiosity of seeing the sport, 
very natural for an Englishman. When we had 
arrived at the course, and had taken several turns 
to observe the different objects that made up this 
whimsical group, a figure suddenly darted by us, 
mounted and dressed in all the elegance of those 
polite gentry who come to show you they have a 
little money, and, rather than pay their just debts 
at home, generously come abroad to bestow it on 
gamblers and pickpockets. As I had not an op- 
portunity of viewing his face till his return, 1 
gently walked after him, and met him as he came 
back, when, to my no small surprise, I beheld in 
this gay Narcissus the visage of Jack Varnish, a 
humble vender of prints. Disgusted at the sight, 
I pulled my friend by the sleeve, pressed him to 
return home, telling him all the way, that I was so 
enraged at the fellow's impudence that I was re- 
solved never to lay out another penny with him. 

And now, pray sir, let me beg of you to give 
this a place in your paper, that Mr. Varnish may 
understand he mistakes the thing quite, if he ima- 
gines horse-racing recommendable in a tradesman ; 
and that he who is revelling every night in the 
arms of a common strumpet (though blessed with 
an indulgent wife), when he ought to be minding 
his business, will never thrive in this world. He 
will find himself soon mistaken, his finances de- 
crease, his friends shun him, customers fall off, and 
himself thrown into a gaol. I would earnestly 
recommend this adage to every mechanic in Lon- 
don, " Keep your shop, and your shop will keep 
you." A strict observance of these w®rds will, I 
am sure, in time gain them estates. Industry is 
the road to wealth, and honesty to happiness ; and 
he who strenuously endeavours to pursue them 
both, may never fear the critic's lash, or the sharp 
cries of penury and want. 



SABINUS AND OLINDA. 

In a fair, rich, and flourishing country, whose 
clifls are washed by the German Ocean, lived Sa- 



THE BEE, 



465 



binus, a youth formed by nature to make a con 
quest wherever he thought proper ; but the con 
staiicy of his disposition fixed him only with 
Olinda. He was indeed superior to her in fortune, 
but that defect on her side was so amply supplied by 
her merit, that none was thought more worthy of 
his regards than she. He loved her, he was be- 
loved by her; and in a short time, by joining 
hands pubUcly, they avowed the union of their 
hearts. But, alas! none, however fortunate, how- 
ever happy, are exempt from the shafts of envy, 
and the malignsmt eifects of ungoverned appetite. 
How unsafe, how detestable are they who have 
this fury for their guide ! How certainly will it 
lead them from themselves, and plunge them in 
errors they would have shuddered at, even in ap- 
prehension! Ariana, a lady of many amiable 
quaUties, very nearly allied to Sabinus, and highly 
esteemed by him, imagined herself slighted, and 
injuriously treated, since his marriage with Olinda. 
By incautiously suffering this jealousy to corrode 
in her breast, she began to give a loose to passion ; 
she forgot those many virtues for which she had 
been so long and so justly applauded. Causeless 
suspicion and mistaken resentment betrayed her 
into all the gloom of discontent ; she sighed with- 
out ceasing ; the happiness of others gave her in- 
tolerable pain; she thought of nothing but re- 
venge. How unlike what she was, the cheerful, 
the prudent, the compassionate Ariana ! 

She continually laboured to disturb a union so 
firmly, so affectionately founded, and planned 
every scheme which she thought most likely to 
disturb it. 

Fortune seemed willing to promote her unjust 
intentions ; the circumstances of Sabinus had been 
long embarrassed by a tedious law-suit, and the 
court determining the cause unexpectedly in favour 
of his opponent, it sunk his fortune to the lowest 
pitch of penury from the highest aiHuence. From 
the nearness of relationship, Sabinus expected 
from Ariana those assistances his present situation 
required; but she was insensible to all his en- 
treaties and the justice of every remonstrance, un- 
less he first separated from Olinda, whom she re- 
garded with detestation. Upon a compliaiioe with 
her desire in this respect, she proivised that her 
fortune, her interest, and her all, should be at his 
command. Sabinus was shockexl at the proposal ; 
he loved his wife with inexpressible tenderness, 
and refused those offers with indignation which 
were to be purchased at so high a piice. Ariana 
was no less displeased to find her offers rejected, 
and gave a loose to all that warmth which she had 
long endeavoured to suppress. Reproach generally 
produces recrimination ; the quarrel rose to such 
a height, that Sabinus was marked for destruction, 
and the very next day, upon the strength of an 
old family debt, he was sent to gaol, with none but 
30 



Olinda to comfort him in his miseries. In this 
mansion of distress they lived together with resig- 
nation, and even with comfort. She provided the 
frugal meal, and he read to her while employed in 
the httle offices of domestic concern. Their fellow- 
prisoners admired their contentment, and when- 
ever they had a desire of relaxing into mirth, and 
enjoying those little comforts that a prison affords, 
Sabinus and Olinda were sure to be of the party. 
Instead of reproaching each other for their mutual 
wretchedness, they both lightened it, by bearing 
each a share of the load imposed by Providence. 
Whenever Sabinus showed the least concern on 
his dear partner's account, she conjured him, by 
the love he bore her, by those tender ties which now 
united them forever, not to discompose himself; 
that so long as his affection lasted, she defied all 
the ills of fortune and every loss of fame or friend- 
ship ; that nothing could make her miserable but 
his seeming to want happiness ; nothing please 
but his sympathizing with her pleasure. A con- 
tinuance in prison soon robbed them of the little 
they had left, and famine began to make its horrid 
appearance ; yet still was neither found to mur- 
mur : they both looked upon their Uttle boy, who, 
insensible of their or his own distress, was play- 
ing about the room, with inexpressible yet silent 
anguish, when a messenger came to inform them 
that Ariana was dead, and that her will in favour 
of a very distant relation, who was now in another 
country, might easily be procured and burnt ; in 
which case all her large fortune would revert to 
him, as being the next heir at law. 

A proposal of so base a nature filled our un- 
happy couple with horror ; they ordered the mes- 
senger immediately out of the room, and falling 
upon each other's neck, indulged an agony of sor- 
row, for now even all hopes of relief were banished. 
The messenger who made the proposal, however, 
was only a spy sent by Ariana to sound the dispo- 
sitions of a man she at once loved and persecuted. 
This lady, though warped by wrong passions, was 
naturally kind, judicious, and friendly. She found 
that all her attempts to shake the constancy or the 
integi-ity of Sabinus were ineffectual ; she had 
therefore begun to reflect, and to wonder how she 
could so long and so unprovokedly injure such un- 
common fortitude and affection. 

She had from the next room herself heard the 
reception given to the messenger, and could not 
avoid feehng all the force of superior virtue ; she 
therefore reassumed her former goodness of heart; 
she came into the room with tears in her eyes, and 
acknowledged the severity of her former treatment. 
She bestowed her first care in providing them all 
the necessary supplies, and acknowledged them as 
the most deserving heirs of her fortune. From 
this moment Sabinus enjoyed an uninterrupted 
happiness with Olinda, and both were happy in 



466 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



the friendship and assistance of Ariana, who, dy- 
ing soon after, left them in possession of a large 
estate, and in her last moments confessed, that 
virtue was the only path to true glory ; and that 
however innocence may for a time be depressed, 
a steady perseverance will in time lead it to a cer- 
tain victory. 



THE SENTIMENTS OF A FRENCH- 
MAN ON THE TEMPER OF THE 
ENGLISH. 

Nothing is so uncommon among the Enghsh 
as that easy affability, that instant method of ac- 
quaintance, or that cheerfulness of disposition, 
which make in France the charm of every socie- 
ty. Yet in this gloomy reserve they seem to pride 
themselves, and think themselves less happy if 
obliged to be more social. One may assert, with- 
out wronging them, that they do not study the 
method of going through life with pleasure and 
tranquillity like the French. Might not this be a 
proof that they are not so much philosophers as 
they imagine 1 Philosophy is no more than the 
ait of making ourselves happy : that is in seeking 
pleasure in regularity, and reconciling what we 
owe to society with what is due to ourselves. 

This cheerfulness, which is the characteristic of 
our nation, in the eye of an Englishman passes al- 
most for folly. But is their gloominess a greater 
mark of their wisdom 1 and, folly against folly, is 
not the most cheerful sort the besti If our gaiety 
makes them sad, they ought not to find it strange 
if their seriousness makes us laugh. 

As this disposition to levity is not familiar to 
them, and as they look on every thing as a fault 
which they do not find at home, the English who 
live among us are hurt by it. Several of their au- 
thors reproach us with it as a vice, or at least as a 
ridicule. 

Mr. Addison styles us a comic nation. In my 
opinion, it is not acting the philosopher on this 
point, to regard as a fault that quality which con- 
tributes most to the pleasure of society and happi- 
ness of life. Plato, convinced that whatever makes 
men happier makes them better, advises to neglect 
nothing that may excite and convert to an early 
habit this sense of joy in children. Seneca places 
it in the first rank of good things. Certain it is, 
at least, that gaiety may be a concomitant of all 
sorts of virtue, but that there are some vices with 
which it is incompatible. 

As to Mm who laughs at every thing, and him 
who laughs at nothing, neither has sound judg- 
ment. All the difference I find between them is, 
that the last is constantly the most unhappy. 
Those who speak against cheerfulness, prove no- 
thing else but that they were born melancholic, 



and that in their hearts they rather envy than con- 
demn that levity they affect to despise. 

The Spectator, whose constant object was the 
good of mankind in general, and of his own nation 
in particular, should, according to his own princi- 
ples, place cheerfulness among the most desirable 
qualities; and probably, whenever he contradicts 
himself in this particular, it is only to conform to 
the tempers of the people whom he addresses. 
He asserts, that gaiety is one great obstacle to the 
prudent conduct of women. But are those of a 
melancholic temper, as the English women gene- 
rally are, less subject to the foibles of love 1 I am 
acquainted with some doctors in this science, to 
whose judgment I would more wilUngly refer than 
to his. And perhaps, in reality, persons naturally 
of a gay temper are too easily taken off by differ- 
ent objects, to give themselves up to all the ex- 
cesses of this passion. 

Mr. Hobbes, a celebrated philosopher of his na- 
tion, maintains that laughing proceeds from our 
pride alone. This is only a paradox if asserted of 
laughing in general, and only argues that misan- 
thropical disposition for which he was remarkable. 

To bring the causes he assigns for laughing un- 
der suspicion, it is sufficinnt to remark, that proud 
people are commonly those who laugh least. 
Gravity is the inseparable companion of pride. To 
say that a man is vain, because the humour of a 
writer, or the buffooneries of a harlequin, excite his 
laughter, would be advancing a great absurdity. 
We should distinguish between laughter inspired 
by joy, and that which arises from mockery. The 
malicious sneer is improperly called laughter. It 
must be owned, that pride is the parent of such 
laughter as this : but this is in itself vicious ; 
whereas the other sort has nothing in its princi- 
ples or effects that deserves condemnation. We 
find this amiable in others, and is it unhappiness 
to feel a disposition towards it in ourselves 1 

When I see an Englishman laugh, I fancy I 
rather see him hunting after joy than having 
caught it : and this is more particularly remarka- 
ble in their women, whose tempers are inclined to 
melancholy. A laugh leaves no more traces on 
their countenance than a flash of lightning on the 
face of the heavens. The most laughing air is in- 
stantly succeefted by the most gloomy. One 
would be apt to think that their souls open with 
difficulty to joy, or at least that joy is not pleased 
with its habitation there. 

In regard to fine raillery, it must be allowed that 
it is not natural to the English, and therefore those 
who endeavour at it make but an ill figure. Some 
of their authors have candidly confessed, that 
pleasantry is quite foreign to their character ; but 
according to the reason they give, they lose nothing 
by this confession. Bishop Sprat gives the fol- 
lowing one; " The English," says he, "have too 



THE BEE. 



467 



much bravery to be derided, and too much. virtue 
and honour to mock others." 



THE BEE, No. VIII. 



Saturday, November 24, 1759. 



ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD. 

The follovying account is so judiciously conceived 
that I am convinced the reader will be more 
pleased with it than with any thing of mine, so 
I shall make no apology for this new publication. 

to the author op the bee. 

Sir, 

Deceit and falsehood have ever been an over- 
match for truth, and followed and admired by the 
majority of mankind. If we inquire after the rea- 
son of this, we shall find it in our own imagina- 
tions, which are amused and entertained with the 
perpetual novelty and variety that fiction affords, 
but find no manner of delight in the uniform sim - 
plioity of homely truth, which still sues them un- 
der the same appearance. 

He, therefore, that would gain our hearts, must 
make his court to our fancy, which, being sovereign 
comptroller of the passions, lets them loose, and in- 
flames them more or less, in proportion to the force 
and efficacy of the first cause, which is ever the 
more powerful the more new it is. Thus in mathe- 
matical demonstrations themselves, though they 
seem to aim at pure truth and instruction, and to 
be addressed to our reason alone, yet 1 think it is 
pretty plain, that our understanJing is only made 
a drudge to gratify our invention and curiosity, and 
we are pleased, not so much because our discoveries 
are certain, as because they arc new. 

I do not deny but the world is still pleased with 
things that pleased it many years ago, but it should 
at the same time be considered, that man is na- 
turally so much of a logician, as to distinguish be- 
tween matters that are plain and easy, and others 
that are hard and inconceivable. What we un- 
derstand, we overlook and despise, and what we 
know nothing of, we hug and delight in. Thus 
there are such things as perpetual novelties ; for we 
are pleased no longer than v/e are amazed, and no- 
thing so much contents us as that which con- 
founds us. 

This weakness in human nature gave occasion 
to a party of men to make such gainful markets as 
they have done of our credulity. All objects and 
facts whatever now ceased to be what they had been 
for ever before, and received what make and mean- 
ing it was found convenient to put upon them : 



what people ate, and drank, and saw, was not what 
they ate, and drank, and saw, but something fur- 
ther, which they were fond of because they were 
ignorant of it. In short, nothing was itself, but 
something beyond itself; and by these artifices and 
amusements the heads of the world were so turned 
and intoxicated, that at last there was scarcely a 
sound set of brains left in it. 

In this state of giddiness and infatuation it was 
no very hard task to persuade the already deluded, 
that there was an actual society and communion 
between human creatures and spiritual demons. 
And when they had thus put people into the power 
and clutches of the devil, none but they alone could 
have either skill or strength to bring the prisoners 
back again. 

But so far did they carry this dreadful drollery, 
and so fond were they of it, that to maintain it and 
themselves in profitable repute, they literally sacri- 
ficed for it, and made impious victims of number- 
less old women and other miserable persons, who 
either, through ignorance, could not say what they 
were bid to say, or, through madness, said what 
they shoukl not have said. Fear and stupidity 
made them incapable of defending themselves, and 
frenzy and infatuation made them confess guilty 
impossibilities, which produced cruel sentences, 
and then inhuman executions. 

Some of these wretched mortals, finding them- 
selves either hateful or terrible to all, and befriend- 
ed by none, and perhaps wanting the common ne- 
cessaries of life, came at last to abhor themselves as 
much as they were abhorred by others, and grew 
wilhng to be burnt or hanged out of a world which 
was no other to them than a scene of persecution 
and anguish. 

Others of strong imaginations and little under- 
standings were, by positive and repeated charges 
against them, of committing mischievous and su- 
pernatural facts and villanies, deluded to judge of 
themselvesby the judgment of their enemies, whose 
weakness or malice prompted them to be accusers. 
And many have been condemned as witches and 
dealers with the devil, for no other reason but their 
knowing more than those who accused, tried, and 
passed sentence upon them. 

In these cases, credulity is a much greater error 
than infidelity, and it is safer to beheve nothing 
than too much. A man that believes little or no- 
thing of witchcraft will destroy nobody for being 
under the imputation of it; and so far he certainly 
acts with humanity to others, and safety to him- 
self: but he that credits all, or too much, upon 
that article, is obUged, if he acts consistently with 
his persuasion, to kill all those whom he takes to 
be the killers of mankind ; and such are witches. 
It would be a jest and a contradiction to say, that 
he is for sparing them who are harmless of that 
tribe, since the received notion of their supposed 



468 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



contract with the devil implies that they are en- 
gaged, by covenant and incUnation, to do all the 
mischief they possibly can. 

I have heard many stories of witches, and read 
many accusations against them ; but I do not re- 
member any that would have induced me to have 
consigned over to the halter or the flame any of 
those deplorable wretches, who, as they share our 
likeness and nature, ought to share our compas- 
sion, as persons cruelly accused of impossibilities. 
But we love to delude ourselves, and often fancy 
or forge an effect, and then set ourselves as gravely 
as ridiculously to find out the cause. Thus, for 
example, when a dream or the hyp has given us 
false terrors, or imaginary pains, we immediately 
conclude that the infernal tyrant owes us a spite, 
and inflicts his wrath and stripes upon us by the 
hands of some of his sworn servants among us. 
For this end an old woman is promoted to a seat 
in Satan's privy-council, and appointed his execu- 
tioner-in-chief within her district. So ready and 
civil are we to allow the devil the dominion over 
us, and even to provide him with butchers and 
hangmen of our own make and nature. 

1 have often wondered why we did not, in choos 
ing our proper oflacers for Beelzebub, lay the lot 
rather upon men than women, the former being 
more bold and robust, and more equal to that 
bloody service; but upon inquiry, I find it has 
been so ordered for two reasons: first, the men 
having the whole direction of this affair, are wise 
enough to slip their own necks out of the collar ; 
and secondly, an old woman is grown by custom 
the most avoided and most unpitied creature under 
the sun, the very name carrying contempt and sa- 
tire in it. And so far indeed we pay but an un- 
courtly sort of respect to Satan, in sacrificing to 
him nothing but dry sticks of human nature. 

We have a wondering quality within us, which 
finds huge gratification when we see strange feats 
done, and can not at the same time see the doer or 
the cause. Such actions are sure to be attributed 
to some witch or demon; for if we come to find 
they are slily performed by artists of our own spe- 
cies, and by causes purely natural, our deUghtdies 
with our amazement. 

It is, therefore, one of the most unthankful ofii- 
ces in the world, to go about to expose the mis- 
taken notions of witchcraft and spirits ; it is robbing 
mankind of a valuable imagination, and of the 
privilege of being deceived. Those who at any 
time undertook the task, have always met with 
rough treatment and ill language for their pains, 
and seldom escaped the imputation of atheism, be- 
cause they would not allow the devil to be too pow- 
erful for the Almighty. For my part, I am so much 
a heretic as to believe, that God Almighty, and not 
the devil, governs the world. 



If we inquire what are the common marks and 
symptoms by which witches are discovered to be 
such, we shall see how reasonably and mercifully 
those poor creatures were burnt and hanged who 
unhappily fell under that name. 

In the first place, the old woman must be pro- 
digiously ugly ; her eyes hollow and red, her face 
shriveled ; she goes double, and her voice trem- 
bles. It frequently happens, that this rueful figure 
frightens a child into the palpitation of the heart : 
home he runs, and tells his mamma, that Goody 
Such-a-one looked at him, and he is very ill. The 
good woman cries out, her dear baby is bewitched, 
and sends for the parson and the constable. 

It is moreover necessary that she be very poor. 
It is true, her master Satan has mines and hidden 
treasures in his gift ; but no matter, she is for all 
that very poor, and Uves on alms. She goes to 
Sisly the cook- maid for a dish of broth, or the heel 
of a loaf, and Sisly denies them to her. The old 
woman goes away muttering, and perhaps in less 
than a month's time, Sisly hears the voice of a 
cat, and strains her ancles, which are certain signs 
that she is bewitched. 

A farmer sees his cattle die of the murrain, and 
his sheep of the rot, and poor Goody is forced to 
be the cause of their death, because she was seen 
talking to herself the evening before such an ewe 
departed, and had been gathering sticks at the side 
of the wood where such a cow run mad. 

The old woman has always for her companion 
an old gray cat, which is a disguised devil too, and 
confederate with Goody in works of darkness. 
They frequently go journeys into Egypt upon a 
broom-staff in half an hour's time, and now and 
then Goody and her cat change shapes. The 
neighbours often overhear them in deep and solemn 
discourse together, plotting some dreadful mischief 
you may be sure. 

There is a famous way of trying witches, re- 
commended by King James I. The old woman 
is tied hand and foot, and thrown into the river, 
and if she swims she is guilty, and taken out and 
burnt ; but if she is innocent, she sinks, and is 
only drowned. 

The witches are said to meet their master fre- 
quently in churches and church-yards. I won- 
der at the boldness of Satan and his congregation, 
in revelling and playing mountebank farces on con- 
secrated ground ; and I have so often wondered at 
the oversight and ill poUcy of some people in al- 
lowing it possible. 

It would have been both dangerous and impious 
to have treated this subject at one certain time in 
this ludicrous manner. It used to be managed 
with all possible gravity, and even terror : and in- 
deed it was made a tragedy in all its parts, and 
thousands were sacrificed, or rather murdered, bv 



THE BEE. 



469 



such evidence and colours, as, God be thanked ! 
we are this day ashamed of. An old woman may 
be miserable rum, and not be hanged for it. 



AN ACCOUNT OF THE AUGUSTAN 
AGE OF ENGLAND. 

The history of the rise of language and learn- 
ing is calculated to gratify curiosity rather than to 
satisfy the understanding. An account of that 
period only when language and learning arrived 
at its highest perfection, is the most conducive to 
real improvement, since it at once raises emulation 
and directs to the proper objects. The age of Leo 
X. in Italy is confessed to be the Augustan age 
with them. The French writers seem agreed to 
give the same appellation to that of Louis XIV. ; 
but the English are yet undetermined with respect 
to themselves. 

Some have looked upon the writers in the times 
of CLueen Elizabeth as the true standard for future 
imitation ; others have descended to the reign of 
James L and others stilllower, to that of Charles II. 
Were I to be permitted to offer an opinion upon this 
subject, I should readily give my vote for the reign 
of Glueen Anne, or some years before that period. 
It was then that taste was united to genius ; and 
as before our writers charmed with their strength 
of thinking, so then they pleased with strength 
and grace united. In that period of British glory, 
though no writer attracts our attention singly, 
yet, hke stars lost in each other's brightness, they 
have cast such a lustre upon the age in which they 
lived, that their minutest transactions will be at- 
tended to by posterity with a greater eagerness than 
the most important occurrences of even empires 
which have been transacted in greater obscurity. 

At that period there seemed to be a just balance 
between patronage and the press. Before it, men 
were little esteemed whose only merit was genius; 
and since, men who can prudently be content to 
catch the public, are certain of living without de- 
pendence. But the writers of the period of which 
I am speaking were sufficiently esteemed by the 
great, and not rewarded enough by booksellers to 
set them above independence. Fame, conse- 
quently, then was the truest road to happiness : a 
sedulous attention to the mechanical business of 
the day makes the present never- failing resource. 

The age of Charles II., which our countrymen 
term the age of wit and immorality, produced 
some writers that at once served to improve our 
language and corrupt our hearts. The king him- 
self had a large share of knowledge, and some wit ; 
and his courtiers were generally men who had 
been brought up in the school of affliction and ex- 
perience. For this reason, when the sxmshine of 
their fortune returned, they gave too great a loose 



to pleasure, and language was by them cultivated 
only as a mode of elegance. Hence it became 
more enervated, and was dashed with quaintr esses, 
which gave the public writings of those times a 
very illiberal air. 

L' Estrange, who was by no means so bad a 
writer as some have represented him, was sunk in 
party faction ; and having generally the worst side 
of the argument, often had recourse to scolding, 
pertness, and consequently a vulgarity that dis- 
covers itself even in his more liberal compositions. 
He was the first writer who regularly enlisted 
himself under the banners of a party for pay. and 
fought for it through right and wrong for upwards 
of forty literary campaigns. This intrepidity 
gained him the esteem of Cromwell himself, and 
the papers he wrote even just before the revolution, 
almost with the rope about his neck, have his usual 
characters of impudence and perseverance. That 
he was a standard writer can not be disowned, be- 
cause a great many very eminent authors formed 
their style by his. But his standard was far from 
being a just one ; though, when party considera- 
tions are set aside, he certainly was possessed of 
elegance, ease, and perspicuity. 

Dryden, though a great and undisputed genius, 
had the same cast as L'Estrange. Even his plays 
discover him to be a party man, and the same prin- 
ciple infects his style in subjects of the Ughtest 
nature; but the English tongue, as it stands at 
present, is greatly his debtor. He first gave it re- 
gular harmony, and discovered its latent powers. 
It was his pen that formed the Congreves, the 
Priors, and the Addisons, who succeeded him; 
and had it not been for Dryden, we never should 
have known a Pope, at least in the meridian lustre 
he now displays. But Dryden's excellencies as a 
writer were not confined to poetry alone. There 
is, in his prose writings, an ease and elegance that 
have never yet been so well united in works of 
taste or criticism. 

The English language owes very httle to Otway, 
though, next to Shakspeare, the greatest genius 
England ever produced in tragedy. His excellen- 
cies lay in painting directly from nature, in catch 
ing every emotion just as it rises from the soul, and 
in all the powers of the moving and pathetic. He 
appears to have had no learning, no critical know- 
ledge, and to have hved in great distress. When 
he died (which he did in an obscure house near 
the Minories), he had about him the copy of a 
tragedy, which, it seems, he had sold for a trifle to 
Bentley the bookseller. I have seen an advertise- 
ment at the end of one of D'Estrange's political 
papers, offering a reward to any one who should 
bring it to his shop. What an invaluable treasure 
was there irretrievably lost, by the ignorance and 
neglect of the age he Uved in ! 

Lee had a great command of language, and vast 



470 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



force of expression, both which the best of our 
succeeding dramatic poets thought proper to take 
for their models. Rowe, in particular, seems to 
have caught that manner, though in all other re- 
spects inferior. The other poets of that reign con- 
tributed but little towards improving the English 
tongue, and it is not certain whether they did not 
injure rather than improve it. Immorahty has its 
cant as well as party, and many shocking expres- 
sions now crept into the language, and became the 
transient fashion of the day. The upper galleries, 
by the prevalence of party-spirit, were courted with 
great assiduity, and a horse-laugh followingribaldry 
was the highest instance of applause, the chastity 
as well as energy of diction being overlooked or 
neglected. 

Virtuous sentiment was recovered, but energy 
of style never was. This, though disregarded in 
plays and party writings, still prevailed amongst 
men of character and business. The dispatches of 
Sir Richard Panshaw, Sir William Godolphin, 
Lord Arlington, and many other ministers of state, 
are all of them, with respect to diction, manly, bold, 
and nervous. Sir William Temple, though a man 
of no learning, had great knowledge and experience. 
He wrote always like a man of sense and a gentle- 
man ; and his style is the model by which the best 
prose writers in the reign of GLueen Anne formed 
theirs. The beauties of Mr. Locke's style, though 
not so much celebrated, are as striking as that of 
his understanding. He never says more nor less 
than he ought, and never makes use of a word that 
he could have changed for a better. The same ob- 
servation holds good of Dr. Samuel Clarke. 

Mr. Locke was a philosopher; his antagonist, 
Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester, was a man of 
learning ; and therefore the contest between them 
was unequal. The clearness of Mr. Locke' s head 
renders his language perspicuous, the learning of 
Stillingfleet's clouds his. This is an instance of the 
superiority of good sense over learning towards the 
improvement of every language. 

There is nothing peculiar to the language of 
Archbishop Tillotson, but his manner of writing 
is inimitable ; for one who reads him, wonders why 
he himself did not think and speak in that very 
manner. The turn of his periods is agreeable, 
though artless, and every thing he says seems to 
flow spontaneously from inward conviction. Bar 
row, though greatly his superior in learning, falls 
short of him in other respects. 

The time seems to be at hand when justice will 
be done to Mr. Cowley's prose, as well as poetical, 
writings ; and though his friend Dr. Sprat, bishop 
of Rochester, in his diction falls far short of the 
abilities for which he has been celebrated, yet there 
is sometimes a happy flow in his periods, something 
that looks like eloquence. The style of his suc- 
cessor, Atterbury, has been much commended by 



his friends, which always happens when a man 
distinguishes himself in party; but there is in it no- 
thing extraordinary. Even the speech which he 
made for himself at the bar of the House of Lords, 
before he was sent into exile, is void of eloquence, 
though it has been cried up by his friends to such 
a degree that his enemies have suffered it to pass 
uncensured. 

The philosophical manner of Lord Shaftesbury's 
writing is nearer to that of Cicero than any Eng- 
Ush author has yet arrived at ; but perhaps had 
Cicero written in English, his composition would 
have greatly exceeded that of our countryman. 
The diction of the latter is beautiful, but such 
beauty as, upon nearer inspection, carries with it 
evident symptoms of affectation. This has been 
attended with very disagreeable consequences. No- 
thing is so easy to copy as affectation, and his lord- 
ship's rank and fame have procured him more imi- 
tators in Britain than any other writer I know; all 
faithfully preserving his blemishes, but unhappily 
not one of his beauties. 

Mr. Trenchard and Mr. Davenant were politi- 
cal writers of great abilities in diction, and their 
pamphlets are now standards in that way of writing. 
They were followed by Dean Swift, who, though 
in other respects far their superior, never could rise 
to that manliness and clearness of diction in politi- 
cal writing for which they were so justly famous. 

They were all of them exceeded by the late Lord 
BoUngbroke, whose strength lay in that province ; 
for as a philosopher and a critic he was ill quahfied, 
being destitute of virtue for the one, and of learn- 
ing for the other. His writings against Sir Robert 
Walpole are incomparably the best part of his 
works. The personal and perpetual antipathy he 
had for that family, to whose places he thought his 
own abilities had a right, gave a glow to his style, 
and an edge to his manner, that never yet have 
been equalled in political writing. His misfortunes 
and disappointments gave his mind a turn which his 
friends mistook for philosophy, and at one time of 
bis life he had the art to impose the same belief up- 
on some of his enemies. His idea of a Patriot 
King, which I reckon (as indeed it was) amongst 
his writings against Sir Robert Walpole, is a 
masterpiece of diction. Even in his other works 
his style is excellent ; but where a man either does 
not, or will not understand the subject he writes 
on, there must always be a deficiency. In politics 
he was generally master of what he undertook, in 
morals never. 

Mr. Addison, for a happy and natural style, 
will be always an honour to British literature. His 
diction indeed wants strength, but it is equal to all 
the subjects he undertakes to handle, as he never 
(at least in his finished works) attempts any thing 
either in the argumentative or demonstrative way. 

Though Sir Richard Steele's reputation as a 



THE BEE. 



471 



puMic writer was owing to his connexions with 
Mr. Addison, yet after their intimacy was formed, 
Steele sunk in his merit as an author. This was 
not owing so much to the evident superiority on 
the part of Addison, as to the unnatural efforts 
which Steele made to equal or echpse him. This 
emulation destroyed that genuine jflow of diction 
which is discoverable in all his former composi- 
tions. 

Whilst their writings engaged attention and the 
fevour of the public, reiterated but unsuccessful en- 
deavours were made towards forming a grammar 
of the English language. The authors of those 
efforts went upon wrong principles. Instead of 
endeavouring to retrench the absurdities of our Ian 
guage, and bringing it to a certain criterion, their 
grammars were no other than a collection of rules 
attempting to naturalize those absurdities, and 
bring them under a regular system. 

Somewhat effectual, however, might have been 
done towards fixing the standard of the English 
language, had it not been for the spirit of party. 
For both whigs and tories being ambitious to stand 
at the head of so great a design, the Glueen's death 
happened before any plan of an academy could be 
resolved on. 

Meanwhile the necessity of such an institution 
became every day more apparent. The periodical 
and political writers, who then swarmed, adopted 
the very worst manner of L' Estrange, till not only 
all decency, but all propriety of language, was lost 
in the nation. Leslie, a pert writer, with some wit 
and learning, insulted the government every week 
with the grossest abuse. His style and manner, 
both of which were illiberal, were imitated by Rid- 
path, De Foe, Dunton, and others of the opposite 
party, and Toland pleaded the cause of atheism 
and immoralitj'- in much the same strain ; his sub- 
ject seemed to debase his diction, and he ever 
failed most in one when he grew most licentious in 
the other. 

Towards the end of CLueen Anne's reign, some 
of the greatest men in England devoted their time 
to party, and then a much better manner obtained 
in political writing. Mr. Walpole, Mr. Addison, 
Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Steele, and many members 
of both houses of parliament, drew their pens for 
the whigs ; but they seem to have been overmatch- 
ed, though not in argument yet in writing, by Bo- 
lingbroke. Prior, Swift, Arbuthnot, and the other 
friends of the opposite party. They who oppose a 
ministry have always a better field for ridicule and 
reproof than they who defend it. 

Since that period, our writers have either been 
encouraged above their merits or below them. 
Some who were possessed of the meanest abilities 
acquired the highest preferments, while others who 
seemed born to reflect a lustre upon the age, perish- 
ed by want and neglect. More, Savage, and Am- 



herst, were possessed of great abilities, yet they 
were suffered to feel all the miseries that usually 
attend the ingenious and the imprudent, that at- 
tend men of strong passions, and no phlegmatic re- 
serve in their command. 

At present, were a man to attempt to improve 
his fortune, or increase his friendship, by poetry, 
he would soon feel the anxiety of disappointment. 
The press lies open, and is a benefactor to every 
sort of literature but that alone. 

I am at a loss whether to ascribe this falling off 
of the public to a vicious taste in the poet, or in 
them. Perhaps both are to be reprehended. The 
poet, either drily didactive, gives us rules which 
might appear abstruse even in a system of ethics, 
or triflingly volatile, writes upon the most unworthy 
subjects ; content, if he can give music instead of 
sense ; content, if he can paint to the imagination 
without any desires or endeavours to affect : the 
public, therefore, with justice, discard such empty 
sound, which has nothing but a jingle, or, what is 
worse, the unmusical flow of blank verse to recom- 
mend it. The late method, also, into which our 
newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome of 
every new publication, must greatly damp the 
writer's genius. He finds himself, in this case, at 
the mercy of men who have neither abilities nor 
learning to distinguish his merit. He finds his 
own composition mixed with the sordid trash of 
every daily scribbler. There is a sufficient speci- 
men given of his work to abate curiosity, and yet 
so mutilated as to render him contemptible. His 
first, and perhaps his second work, by these means 
sink, among the crudities of the age, into oblivion. 
Fame he finds begins to turn her back: he there- 
fore flies to profit which invites him, and he en- 
rols himself in the Usts of dulness and of avarice 
for life. 

Yet there are still among us men of the greatest 
abilities, and who in some parts of learning have 
surpassed their predecessors : justice and friendship 
might here impel me to speak of names which will 
shine out to all posterity, but prudence restrains 
me from what I should otherwise eagerly embrace. 
Envy might rise against every honoured name I 
should mention, since scarcely one of them has not 
those who are his enemies, or those who despise 
him, etc. 



OF THE OPERA IN ENGLAND. 

The rise and fall of our amusements pretty 
much resemble that of empire. They this day 
flourish withovt any visible cause for such vigour; 
the next, they decay without any reason that can 
be assigned for their downfal. Some years ago the 
ItaUan opera was the only fashionable amusement 
among our nobility. The managers of the play- 



472 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



houses dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and our very 
poets listed themselves in the opposition: at present 
the house seems deserted, the castrati sing to empty 
benches, even Prince Vologese himself, a youth of 
great expectations, sings himself out of breath, and 
rattles his chain to no purpose. 

To say the truth, the opera as it is conducted 
among us, is but a very humdrum amusement : in 
other countries, the decorations are entirely magnifi- 
cent, the singers all excellent, and the burlettas or 
interludes quite entertaining ; the best poets com- 
pose the words, and the best masters the music, but 
with us it is otherwise ; the decorations are but tri- 
fling and cheap ; the singers, Matei only excepted, 
but indifferent. Instead of interlude, we have those 
sorts of skipping dances, which are calculated for 
the galleries of the theatre. Every performer sings 
his favourite song, and the music is only a medley of 
old Italian airs, or some meagre modern Capriccio. 
When such is the case, it is not much to be 
■wondered if the opera is pretty much neglected ; 
the lower orders of people have neither taste nor 
fortune to reUsh such an entertainment; they 
would find more satisfaction in the Roast Beef 
of Old England than in the finest closes of a eu- 
nuch; they sleep amidst all the agony of recita- 
tive ; on the other hand, people of fortune or taste 
can hardly be pleased, where there is a visible 
poverty in the decorations, and an entire want of 
taste in the composition. 

Would it not surprise one, that when Metasta- 
sio is so well known in England, and so universal- 
ly admired, the manager or the composer should 
have recourse to any other operas than those writ- 
ten by him? I might venture to say, that written 
by Metastasio, put up in the bills of the day, would 
alone be sufficient to fill a house, since thus the 
admirers of sense as well as sound might find enter 
tainment. 

The performers also should be entreated to sing 
only their parts without clapping in any of their 
own favourite airs. I must own, that such songs 
are generally to me the most disagreeable in the 
world. Every singer generally chooses a favourite 
air, not from the excellency of the music, but from 
difficulty ; such songs are generally chosen as sur- 
prise rather than please, where the performer may 
show his compass, his breath, and his volubility. 

Hence proceed those unnatural startings, those 
unmusical closings, and shakes lengthened out to 
a painful continuance ; such indeed may show a 
voice, but it must give a truly delicate ear the ut- 
most uneasiness. Such tricks are not music ; nei- 



ther Corelli nor Pergolesi ever permitted them, and 
they even begin to be discontinued in Italy, where 
they first had their rise. 

And now I am upon the subject: our composers 
also should affect greater simplicity ; let their bass' 
cliff have all the variety they can give it; let the 
body of the music (if I may so express it) be as va- 
rious as they please ; but let them avoid ornament- 
ing a barren ground-work ; let them not attempt 
by flourishing to cheat us of solid harmony. 

The works of Mr. Rameau are never heard 
without a surprising effect. I can attribute it oidy 
to the simplicity he every where observes, insomuch 
that some of his finest harmonies are only octave 
and unison. This simple manner has greater 
powers than is generally imagined ; and were not 
such a demonstration misplaced, I think, from the 
principles of music it might be proved to be most 
agreeable. 

But to leave general reflection. With the present 
set of performers, the operas, if the conductor thinks 
proper, may be can'ied on with some success, since 
they have all some merit, if not as actors, at least as 
singers. Signora Matei is at once both a perfect 
actress and a very fine singer. She is possessed 
of a fine sensibility in her manner, and seldom in- 
dulges those extravagant and unmusical flights of 
voice complained of before. Cornacini, on the other 
hand, is a very indifferent actor, has a most un- 
meaning face, seems not to feel his part, is infected 
with a passion of showing his compass; but to re- 
compense all these defects, his voice is melodious, 
he has vast compass and great volubility, his swell 
and shake are perfectly fine, unless that he con- 
tinues the latter too long. In short, whatever the 
defects of his action may be, they are amply recom- 
pensed by his excellency as a singer ; nor can I 
avoid fancying that he might make a much great- 
er figure in an oratorio than upon the stage. 

However, upon the whole, I know not whether 
ever operas can be kept up in England; they seem 
to be entirely exotic, and require the nicest manage- 
ment and care. Instead of this, the care of them is 
assigned to men unacquainted with the genius and 
disposition of the people they would amuse, and 
whose only motives are immediate gain. Whether 
a discontinuance of sucl*entertainments would be 
more to the loss or advantage of the nation, I will 
not take upon me to determine, since it is as much 
our interest to induce foreigners of taste among us 
on the one hand, as it is to discourage those trifling 
members of society who generally compose the 
operatical dramatis personae on the other. 



Mg(s^iL2Li^^(S)W^ ms^'s^ 



[originally published in 1765.] 



THE PREFACE. 

The following Essays have already appeared at 
different times, and in different publications. The 
pamphlets in which they were inserted being gen- 
erally unsuccessful, these shared the common fate, 
without assisting the bookseller's aims, or extend- 
ing the writer's reputation. The public were too 
strenuously employed with their own follies to be 
assiduous in estimating mine ; so that many of my 
best attempts in this way have fallen victims to the 
transient topic of the times — the Ghost in Cock- 
lane, or the siege of Ticonderoga. 

But though they have passed pretty silently in- 
to the world, I can by no means complain of their 
circulation. The magazines and papers of the 
day have indeed been liberal enough in this re- 
spect Most of these essays have been regularly 
reprinted twice or thrice a year, and conveyed to 
the public through the kennel of some engaging 
compilation. If there be a pride in multiplied edi- 
tions, I have seen some of my labours sixteen 
times reprinted, and claimed by different parents 
as their own. I have seen them flourished at the 
beginning with praise, and signed at the end with 
the names of Philautos, Philalethis, Phileleuthcros, 
and Philanthropes. These gentlemen have kindly 
stood sponsors to my productions, and, to flatter 
me more, have always passed them as their own. 

It is time, however, at last to vindicate my 
claims ; and as these entertainers of the public, as 
they call themselves, have partly lived upon me for 
some years, let me now try if I can not live a little 
upon myself. I would desire, in this case, to imi- 
tate that fat man whom I have somewhere heard 
of in a shipwreck, who, when the sailors, pressed 
by famine, were taking sUces from his posteriors to 
satisfy their hunger, insisted, with great justice, on 
having the first cut for himself 

Yet, after all, lean not be angry with any who have 
taken it into their heads, to think that whatever I 
write is worth reprinting, particularly when I consid- 
er how great a majority will think it scarcely worth 
reading. Trifling and superficial are terms of re- 
proach that are easily objected, and that carry an 
air of penetration in the observer. These faults 



have been objected to the following Essays, and it 
must be owned in some measure that the charge 
is true. However, 1 could have made them more 
metaphysical had 1 thought fit ; but I would ask, 
whether, in a short Essay, it is not necessary to be 
superficial? Before we have prepared to enter 
into the depths of a subject in the usual forms, we 
have arrived at the bottom of our scanty page, and 
thus lose the honours of a victory by too tedious a 
preparation for the combat. 

There is another fault in this collection of tri- 
fles, which, I fear, will not be so easily pardoned. 
It will be alleged, that the humour of them (if any 
be found) is stale and hackneyed. This may be 
true enough, as matters now stand ; but I may 
with great truth assert, that the humour was new 
when I wrote it. Since that time, indeed, many 
of the topics, which were first stated here, have 
been hunted down, and many of the thoughts 
blown upon. In fact, these Essays were consider- 
ed as quietly laid in the grave of oblivion ; and our 
modern compilers, like sextons and executioners, 
think it their undoubted right to pillage the dead. 

However, whatever right I have to complain of 
the public, they can, as yet, have no just reason to 
complain of me. If I have written dull Essays, 
they have hitherto treated them as dull Essays. 
Thus far we are at least upon par, and until they 
think fit to make me their humble debtor by praise, 
1 am resolved not to lose a single inch of my self- 
importance. Instead, therefore, of attempting to 
establish a credit amongst them, it will perhaps be 
wiser to apply to some more distant correspondent; 
and as my drafts are in some danger of being pro- 
tested at home, it may not be unprudent, upon this 
occasion, to draw my bills upon Posterity. 

Mr. Posterity, 

Sir, 

Nine hundred and ninety-nine years 
after sight hereof, pay the bearer, or order, a thou- 
sand pounds worth of praise, free from all deduc- 
tions whatsoever, it being a commodity that will 
then be very serviceable to him, and place it to the 
account of, etc. 



474 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ESSAY I. 

I REMEMBER to have read in some philosopher 
(I believe in Tom Brown's v^orks), that, let a 
man's character, sentiments, or complexion be 
what they will, he can find company in London to 
match them. If he be splenetic, he may every 
day meet companions on the seats in St. James's 
Park, with whose groans he may mix his own, 
and pathetically talk of the weather. If he be pas- 
sionate, he may vent his rage among the old ora- 
tors at Slaughter's Coffee-house, and damn the 
nation because it keeps him from starving. If he 
be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence at the hum- 
drum club in Ivy-lane ; and, if actually mad, he 
may find very good company in Moorfields, either 
at Bedlam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a 
nearer acquaintance. 

But, although such as have a knowledge of the 
town may easily class themselves with tempers 
congenial to their own, a countryman, who comes 
to live in London, finds nothing more difficult. 
"With regard to myself, none ever tried with more 
assiduity, or came off with such indifferent suc- 
cess. I spent a whole season in the search, dur- 
ing which time my name has been enrolled in so- 
cieties, lodges, convocations, and meetings, with- 
out number. To some I was introduced by a 
friend, to others invited by an advertisement ; to 
these I introduced myself, and to those I changed 
my name to gain admittance. In short, no co- 
quette was ever more solicitous to match her ri- 
bands to her complexion, than I to suit my club to 
my temper ; for I was too obstinate to bring my 
temper to conform to it. 

The first club I entered upon coming to town 
was that of the Choice Spirits. The name was 
entirely suited to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, 
good-humour, and even sometimes of fun, from 
my childhood. 

As no other passport was requisite but the pay- 
ment of two shillings at the door, I introduced my- 
self without further ceremony to the members, who 
were already assembled, and had for some time 
begun upon business. The Grand, with a mallet 
in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I 
could not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of 
all my skill in physiognomy, in order to discover 
that superiority of genius in men, who had taken 
a title so superior to the rest of mankind. I ex- 
pected to see the lines of every face marked with 
strong thinking ; but though I had some skill in 
this science, I could for my Ufe discover nothing 
but a pert simper, fat or profound stupidity. 

My speculations were soon interrupted by the 
Grand, who had knocked dovra Mr. Spriggins for 
a song. I was upon this whispered by one of the 
company who sat next me, that I should now see 



something touched off to a nicety, for Mr. Sprig- 
gins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glo- 
ry. Mr. Spriggins endeavoured to excuse himself; 
for as he was to act a madman and a king, it was 
impossible to go through the part properly without 
a crown and chains. His excuses were overruled 
by a great majority, and with much vociferation. 
The president ordered up the jack-chain, and in- 
stead of a crown, our performer covered his brows 
with an inverted jorden. After he had rattled his 
chain, and shook his head, to the great delight of 
the whole company, he began his song. As I 
have heard few young fellows offer to sing in com- 
pany, that did not expose themselves, it was no 
great disappointment to me to find Mr. Spriggins 
among the number ; however, not to seem an odd 
fish, I rose from my seat in rapture, cried out, 
bravo ! encore ! and slapped the table as loud as 
any of the rest. 

The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly 
pleased with my taste and the ardour of my ap- 
probation ; and whispering told me that I had suf- 
fered an immense loss, for had I come a few mi- 
nutes sooner, I might have heard Gee ho Dobbin 
sung in a tip-top manner by the pimple-nosed spi- 
rit at the president's right elbow ; but he was evap- 
orated before I came. 

As I was expressing my uneasiness at this dis- 
appointment, I found the attention of the compa- 
ny employed upon a fat figure, who, with a voice 
more rough than the Staffordshire giant's, was 
giving us the Softly Sweet in Lydian Measure of 
Alexander's Feast. After a short pause of ad- 
miration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue, 
with the humours of Teague and Taffy : after that 
came on Old Jackson, with a story between every 
stanza; next was sung the Dustcart, and then 
Solomon's Song. The glass began now to circu- 
late pretty freely : those who were silent when so- 
ber would now be heard in their turn ; every man 
had his song, and he saw no reason why he should 
not be heard as well as any of the rest ; one begged to 
be heard while he gave Death and the Lady in high 
taste ; another sung to a plate which he kept 
trundling on the edges ; nothing was now heard 
but singing ; voice rose above voice ; and the whole 
became one universal shout, when the landlord 
came to acquaint the company that the reckoning 
was drank out. Rabelais calls the moment in 
which a reckoning is mentioned the most melan- 
choly of our lives ; never was so much noise so 
quickly quelled as by this short but pathetic ora- 
tion of our landlord : drank out ! was echoed in a 
tone of discontent round the table : drank out al- 
ready ! that was very odd ! that so much punch 
could be drank already — impossible ! The land- 
lord, however, seeming resolved not to retreat from 
his first assurances, the company was dissolved, 
and a president chosen for the night ensuing. 



ESSAYS. 



475 



A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining 
some time after the entertainment I have been de- 
scribing, proposed to bring me to the club that he 
frequented, which he fancied would suit the gravity 
of my temper exactly. " We have at the Muzzy 
Club," says he, " no riotous mirth nor awkward 
ribaldry; no confusion or bawhng ; all is conducted 
with wisdom and decency : besides, some of our 
members are worth forty thousand pounds ; men of 
prudence and foresight every one of them : these are 
the proper acquaintance, and to such I will to night 
introduce you." I was charmed at the proposal : 
to be acquainted with men worth forty thousand 
pounds, and to talk vnsdom the whole night, were 
offers that threw me into raptures. 

At seven o'clock I was accordingly introduced 
by my friend, not indeed to the company, for, 
though I made my best bow, they seemed insensi- 
ble of my approach, but to the table at which they 
were sitting. Upon my entering the room, I could 
not avoid feeling a secret veneration from the so- 
lemnity of the scene before me; the members kept 
a profound silence, each with a pipe in his mouth, 
and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that 
might easily be construed into absolute wisdom. 
Happy society, thought I to myself, where the 
members think before they speak, deliver nothing 
rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other 
pregnant with meaning and matured by reflection. 

In this pleasing specidation I continued a full 
half-hour, expecting each moment that somebody 
would begin to open his mouth : every time the pipe 
was laid down I expected it was to speak ; but it 
was only to spit. At length resolving to break the 
charm myself, and overcome their extreme difS- 
dence, for to this I imputed their silence, I rubbed 
my hands, and, looking as wise as possible, ob- 
served that the nights began to grow a httle coolish 
at this time of the year. This, as it was directed 
to none of the company in particular, none thought 
himself obliged to answer, wherefore I continued 
still to rub my hands and look wise. My next 
effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next 
me ; to whom I observed, that the beer was ex- 
tremely good. My neighbour made no reply, but 
by a large puff of tobacco-smoke. 

I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, 
till one of them a little relieved me by observing 
that bread had not risen these three weeks : " Aye," 
says another, still keeping the pipe in his mouth, 
" that puts me in mind of a pleasant story about 
that — hem — ^very well ; you must know — iDut. be- 
fore I begin — sir, my service to you — where was 
17" 

My next club goes by the name of the Harmo- 
nical Society ; probably from that love of order and 
friendship which every person commends in insti- 
tutions of this nature. The landlord was himself 
4he founder. The money spent is fourpence each ; 



and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. 
To this club few recommendations are requisite, 
except the introductory fourpence and my land- 
lord's good word, which, as he gains by it, he never 
refuses. 

We all here talked and behaved as every body 
else usually does on his club-night ; we discussed 
the topic of the day, drank each other's healths, 
snuffed the candles with our fingers, and filled our 
pipes from the same plate of tobacco. The com- 
pany saluted each other in the common manner; 
Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Currycomb-maker 
had not caught cold going home the last club- 
night ; and he returned the compliment by hoping 
that young Master Bellows-mender had got well 
again of the chincough. Dr. Twist told us a story 
of a parliament-man, with whom he was intimately 
acquainted ; while the bug-man, at the same time, 
was telling a better story of a noble lord with whom 
he could do any thing. A gentleman, in a black 
wig and leather breeches at the other end of the 
table, was engaged in a long narrative of the Ghost 
in Cock-lane : he had read it in the papers of the 
day, and was telling it to some that sat next him, 
who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins was 
disputing on the old subject of religion with a Jew 
pedler, over the table, while the president vainly 
knocked down Mr. Leathersides for a song. Be- 
sides the combinations of these voices, which I 
could hear altogether, and which formed an upper 
part to the concert, there were several others play- 
ing tinder-parts by themselves, and endeavouring 
to fasten on some luckless neighbour's ear, who was 
himself bent upon the same design against some 
other. 

We have often heard of the speech of a corpora- 
tion, and this induced me to transcribe a speech of 
this club, taken in short-hand, word for word, as it 
was spoken by every member of the companj"-. It 
may be necessary to observe, that the man who told 
of the ghost had the loudest voice, and the longest 
story to tell, so that his continuing narrative filled 
every chasm in the conversation. 

" So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three 
loud raps at the bed-post — Says my Lord to me, 
my dear Smokeum, you know there is no man 
upon the face of the earth for whom I have so high — 
A damnable false heretical opinion of all sound 
doctrine and good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud, 
and spare not that — Silence for a song ; Mr. Leath- 
ersides for a song — ' As I was walking upon the 
highway, I met a young damsel' — Then what 
brings you here 1 says the parson to the ghost — i 
Sanconiathan, Manetho, and Berosus — The whole 
way from Islington-turnpike to Dog-house bar — 
Dam — As for Abel Drugger, sir, he's damn'd low 
in it; my 'prentice boy has more of the gentleman 
than he — For murder will out one time or ano- 
ther • and none but a ghost, you know, gentlemen, 



475 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



can— Damme if I don't; for my friend, whom 
you know, gentlemen, and who is a parliament- 
man, a man of consequence, a dear honest crea- 
ture, to be sure; we were laughing last night at — 
Death and danmation be upon all his posterity, by 
simply barely tasting— Sour grapes, as the fox said 
once when he could not reach them; and I'll, I'll 
tell you a story about that, that will make you 
burst your sides with laughing : A fox once — Will 
nobody Usten to the song—' As I was walking upon 
the highway, I met a young damsel both buxom 
and gay' — No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; 
nor did I ever hear but of one ghost killed in all 
my life, and that was stabbed in the belly with a — 
My blood and soul if I don't — Mr. Bellows-mender, 
I have the honour of drinking your very good 
health— Blast me if I do— dam— blood— bugs— fire 

— whiz— blid— tit— rat— trip" The rest all riot, 

nonsense, and rapid confusion. 

Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I 
could here find ample room for declamation ; but, 
alas ! I have been a fool myself; and why should I 
be angry vfith them for being something so natural 
to every child of humanity 1 

Fatigued with this society, I was introduced the 
following night to a club of fashion. On taking 
my place, I found the conversation sufficiently 
easy, and tolerably good-natured ; for my lord and 
Sir Paul were not yet arrived. I now thought 
myself completely fitted, and resolving to seek no 
further, determined to take up my residence here 
for the winter ; while my temper began to open in- 
sensibly to the cheerfulness I saw diffused on every 
face in the room : but the delusion soon vanished, 
when the waiter came to apprise us that his lord- 
ship and Sir Paul were just arrived. 

From this moment all our felicity was at an end ; 
our new guests bustled into the room, and took 
their seats at the head of the table. Adieu now all 
confidence ; every creature strove who should most 
recommend himself to our members of distinction. 
Each seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but 
our new guests ; and what before wore the ap- 
pearance of friendship was now turned into rivalry. 

Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flat- 
tery and obsequious attention, our great men took 
any notice of the rest of the company. Their 
whole discourse was addressed to each other. Sir 
Paul told his lordship a long story of Moravia the 
Jew; and his lordsliip gave Sir Paul a very long 
account of his new method of managing silli- 
worms : he led him, and consequently the rest of 
the company, through all the stages of feeding, 
sunning, and hatching ; with an episode on mul- 
berry-trees, a digression upon grass seeds, and a 
long parenthesis about his new postillion. In this 
manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be 
the last ; but all in vain — 

" Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose." 



The last club in which I was enrolled a member, 
was a society of moral philosophers, as they called 
themselvesj who assembled twice a-week, in order 
to show the absurdity of the present mode of re- 
ligion, and establish a new one in its stead. 

I found the members very warmly disputing 
when I arrived ; not indeed about religion or ethics, 
but about who had neglected to lay down his pre- 
Uminary sixpence upon entering the room. The 
president swore that he had laid his own down, and 
so swore all the company. 

During this contest I had an opportunity of ob- 
serving the laws, and also the members of the so- 
ciety. The president, who had been, as I was 
told, lately a bankrupt, was a tall pale figure with 
a long black wig ; the next to him was dressed in 
a large white wig, and a black cravat ; a third by 
the brownness of his complexion seemed a native 
of Jamaica ; and a fourth by his hue appeared to 
be a blacksmith. But their rules will give the 
most just idea of their learning and principles. 

I. We being a laudable society of moral phi- 
losophers, intends to dispute twice a-week about 
religion and priestcraft. Leaving behind us old 
wives' tales, and following good learning and sound 
sense : and if so be, that any other persons has a 
mind to be of the society, they shall be entitled so 
to do, upon paying the sum of three shillings to be 
spent by the company in punch. 

II. That no member get drunk before nine of 
the clock, upon pain of forfeiting threepence, to be 
spent by the company in punch. 

III. That as members are sometimes apt to go 
away without paying, every person shall pay six- 
pence upon his entering the room ; and all disputes 
shall be settled by a majority, and all fines shall be 
paid in punch. 

IV. That sixpence shall be every night given 
to the president, in order to buy books of learning 
for the good of the society ; the president has al- 
ready put himself to a good deal of expense in 
buying books for the club ; particularly the works 
of TuUy, Socrates, and Cicero, which he will soon 
read to the society. 

V. All them who brings a new argument 
against religion, and who being a philosopher, and 
a man of learning, as the rest of us is, shall be ad- 
mitted to the freedom of the society, upon paying 
sixpence only, to be spent in punch. 

VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary 
meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish 
name in the newspapers. 

Saunders Mac Wild, president, 
Anthony Blewit, vice-president 

his -f- mark. 
William Tcrpin, secretary. 



ESSAYS. 



477 



ESSAY II. 

We essayists, who are allowed but one subject 
at a time, are by no means so fortunate as the wri- 
ters of magazines, who write upon several. If a 
magaziner be dull upon the Spanish war, he soon 
has us up again with the Ghost in Cock-lane ; if 
the reader begins to doze upon that, he is quickly 
roused by an eastern tale ; tales prepare us for po- 
etry, and poetiy for the meteorological history of 
the weather. It is the life and soul of a magazine 
never to be long dull upon one subject ; and the 
reader, hke the sailor's horse, has at least the com- 
fortable refreshment of having the spur often 
changed. 

As I see no reason why they should carry off 
all the rewards of genius, I have some thoughts 
for the future of making this Essay a magazine in 
miniature : I shall hop from subject to subject, and, 
if properly encouraged, I intend in time to adorn 
vayfeuille volant with pictures. But to begin in 
the usual form with 

A MODEST ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC. 

The public has been so often imposed upon by 
the unperforming promises of others, that it is with 
the utmost modesty we assure them of our invio- 
lable design of giving the very best collection that 
ever astonished society. The public we honour 
and regard, and therefore to instruct and entertain 
them is our highest ambition, with labours calcu- 
lated as well for the head as the heart. If four 
extraordinary pages of letter-press, be any recom- 
mendation of our wit, we may at least boast the 
honour of vindicating our own abilities. To say 
more in favour of the Infernal Magazin£, would 
be unworthy the public ; to say less, would be inju- 
rious to ourselves. As we have no interested mo- 
tives for this undertaking, being a society of gen- 
tlemen of distinction, we disdain to eat or write 
like hireUngs ; we are all gentlemen, resolved to 
sell our sixpenny magazine merely for our own 
amusement. 

Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 

DEDICATION TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OF ALL 
PATRONS, THE TRIPOLINE AMBASSADOR. 

May it please your Excellency, 

As your taste in the fine arts is universally al- 
lowed and admired, permit the authors of the In- 
fernal Magazine to lay the following sheets hum- 
bly at your Excellency's toe ; and should our la- 
bours ever have the happiness of one day adorning 
the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influence 
wherewith we are honoured, shall be ever retained 
with the most warm ardour by, 

May it please your Excellency, 
Your most devoted humble servants. 

The authors of the Infernal Magazine. 



A SPEECH SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSO- 
PHER, TO PERSUADE HIS CLUB AT CATEATON TO 
DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN. 

My honest friends and brother politicians, I per- 
ceive that the intended war with Spain makes ma- 
ny of you uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, 
the stocks rose, and you were glad ; to-day they 
fall, and you are again miserable. But, my dear 
friends, what is the rising or the faUing of the 
stocks to us, who have no money 1 Let Nathan 
Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for 
this ; but, my good Mr. Bellows-mender, what is 
all this to you or me 1 You must mend broken 
bellows, and I write bad prose, as long as we live, 
whether we like a Spanish war or not. Believe 
me, my honest friends, whatever you may talk of 
liberty and your own reason, both that liberty and 
reason are conditionally resigned by every poor 
man in every society ; and, as we are born to work, 
so others are born to watch over us while we are 
worldng. In the name of common sense then, my 
good friends, let the great keep watch over us, and 
let us mind our business, and perhaps we may at 
last get money ourselves, and set beggars at work 
in our turn. I have a Latin sentence that is worth 
its weight in gold, and which I shall beg leave to 
translate for your instruction. An author, called 
Lilly's Grammar, finely observes, that "JEs in 
prassenti perfectum format ;" that is, " Ready mo- 
ney makes a perfect man." Let us then get ready 
money ; and let them that will spend theirs by go- 
ing to war with Spain. 

RULES FOR BEHAVIOUR, DRAWN UP BY THE INDI- 
GENT PHILOSOPHER. 

If you be a rich man, you may enter the room 
with three loud hems, march deliberately up to 
the chimney, and turn your back to the fire. If 
you be a poor man, I would advise you to shrink 
into the room as fast as you can, and place your 
self as usual upon the corner of a chair in a re- 
mote corner. 

When you are desired to sing in company, I 
would advise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to 
one but that you torment us with affectation or a 
bad voice. 

If you be young, and live with an old man, I 
would advise you not to like gravy ; I was disin- 
herited myself for liking gravy. 

Don't laugh much in public ; the spectators that 
are not as merry as you will hate you, either be- 
cause they envy your happiness, or fancy them- 
selves the subject of your mirth. 

RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. TRANSLATED 
FROM THE LATIN OF DAN^US DE SORTIARIIS, 
A WRITER CONTEMPORARY WITH CALVIN, AND 
ONE OP THE REFORMERS OP OUR CHURCH. 

The person who desires to raise the DevD, is to 



478 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS- 



sacrifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own 
property, to Beelzebub. He is to swear an eternal 
obedience, and then to receive a mark in some un- 
seen place, either under the eye-lid, or in the roof 
of the mouth inflicted by the devil himself. Upon 
this he has power given him over three spirits ; one 
for earth, another for air, and a third for the sea. 
Upon certain times the devil holds an assembly of 
magicians, in which each is to give an account 
of what evil he has done, and what he wishes to 
do. At this assembly he appears in the shape of an 
old man, or often like a goat with large horns. 
They upon this occasion renew their vows of obe- 
dience ; and then form a grand dance in honour 
of their false deity. The devil instructs them in 
every method of injuring mankind, in gathering 
poisons, and of riding upon occasion through the 
air. He shows them the whole method, upon ex- 
amination, of giving evasive answers ; his spirits 
have power to assume the form of angels of light, 
and there is but one method of detecting them, 
viz. to ask them in proper form, what method is 
the most certain to propagate the faith over all the 
world? To this they are not permitted by the Su- 
perior Power to make a false reply, nor are they 
willing to give the true one, wherefore they con- 
tinue silent, and are thus detected. 



ESSAY III. 

Where Tauris lifts its head above the storm, 
and presents nothing to the sight of the distant 
traveller but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling 
torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature ; 
on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, se- 
cluded from society, and detesting the ways of men, 
lived Asem the Man-hater. 

Asem had spent his youth with men, had shared 
in their amusements, and had been taught to love 
his fellow-creatures with the most ardent affection ; 
but from the tenderness of his disposition he ex 
hausted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the 
distressed. The petitioner never sued in vain, the 
weary traveller never- passed his door ; he only -^v 
sisted from doing good when he had no longer i< 
power of relieving. 

From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he 
expected a grateful return from those he had for- 
merly relieved, and made his application with con- 
fidence of redress : the ungrateful world soon grew 
weary of his importunity ; for pity is but a short- 
lived passion. He soon therefore began to view 
mankind in a very different light from that in which 
he had before beheld them ; he perceived a thousand 
vices he had never before suspected to exist ; where- 
ever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and 
treachery, contributed to increase his detestation of 
them. Resolved therefore to continue no longer 



in a world which he hated, and which repaid his 
detestation with contempt, he retired to this region 
of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in 
solitude, and converse with the only honest heart 
he knew, namely, with his own. 

A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency 
of the weather ; fruits gathered with difficulty from 
the mountain's side his only food; and his drink 
was fetched with danger and toil from the head- 
long torrent. In this manner he lived, sequestered 
from society, passing the hours in meditation, and 
sometimes exulting that he was able to live inde- 
pendently of his fellow-creatures. 

At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake 
displayed its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad 
surface the impending horrors of the mountain. To 
this capacious mirror he would sometimes descend, 
and reclining on its steep banks, cast an eager look 
on the smooth expanse that lay before him. " How 
beautiful," he often cried, " is Nature ! how lovely 
even in her wildest scenes ! How finely contrasted 
is the level plain that lies beneath me, with yon 
awful pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds! 
But the beauty of these scenes is no way compara- 
ble with their utility ; hence a hundred rivers are 
supplied, which distribute health and verdure to 
the various countries through which they flow. 
Every part of the universe is beautiful, just, and 
wise ; but man, vile man, is a solecism in nature, 
the only monster in the creation. Tempests and 
whirlwinds have their use ; but vicious ungrateful 
man is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty. 
Why was I born of that detested species, whose 
vices are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the 
divine Creator? Were men entirely free from vice, 
all would be uniformity, harmony, and order. A 
world of moral rectitude should be the result of a 
perfect moral ageni,. Why, why then, O Alia ! 
must I be thus confined in darkness, doubt, and 
despair?" 

Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going 
to plunge into the lalte beneath him, at once to sat- 
isfy his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety ; 
when he perceived a most majestic being walking 
on the surface of the water, and approaching the 
bank on which he stood. So unexpected an object 
at once checked his purpose ; he stopped, contem- 
plated, and fancied he saw something awful and 
divine in his aspect. 

" Son of Adam," cried the Genius, " stop thy 
rash purpose ; the Father of the faithful has seen 
thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and hath 
sent me to afford and administer relief. Give me 
thine hand, and follow without trembling wherever 
I shall lead : in me behold the Genius of Convic- 
tion, kept by the Great Prophet, to turn from their 
errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but 
a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be vfise." 

Asam immediately descended upon the lake, and 



ESSAYS. 



479 



his guide conducted him along the surface of the 
water, till coming near the centre of the lalce, they 
both began to sink ; the waters closed over their 
heads ; they descended several hundred fathoms, 
till Asem, just ready to give up his life as inevitably 
lost, found himself with his celestial guide in ano- 
ther world, at the bottom of the waters, where hu- 
man foot had never trod before. His astonishment 
was beyond description, when he saw a sun like 
that he had left, a serene sky over his head, and 
blooming verdure under his feet. 

" I plainly perceive your amazement," said the 
Genius ; " but suspend it for a while. This world 
was formed by Alia, at the request, and under the 
inspection, of our Great Prophet ; who once en- 
tertained the same doubts which filled your mind 
when I found you, and from the consequence of 
which you were so lately rescued. The rational 
inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to 
your own ideas ; they are absolutely without vice. 
In other respects it resembles your earth, but dif- 
fers from it in being wholly inhabited by men who 
never do wrrong. If you find this world more 
agreeable than that you so lately left, you have 
free permission to spend the remainder of your 
days in it ; but permit me for some time to attend 
you, that I may silence your doubts, and make 
you better acquainted with your company and 
your new habitation !" 

" A world without vice ! Rational beings with- 
out immorality !" cried Asem in a rapture : " I 
thank thee, O Alia, who hast at length heard my 
petitions ; this, this indeed will produce happiness, 
ecstacy, and ease. O for an immortality to spend 
it among men who are incapable of ingratitude, 
injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other 
crimes, that render society miserable." 

" Cease thine exclamations," replied the Genius. 
" Look around thee ; reflect on every object and 
action before us, and communicate to me the re- 
sult of thine observations. Lead wherever you 
think proper, I shall be your attendant and in- 
structor. Asem and his companion travelled on 
in silence for some time, the former being entirely 
lost in astonishment ; but at last recovering his 
former serenity, he could not help observing, that 
the face of the country bore a near resemblance to 
that he had left, except that this subterranean 
world still seemed to retain its primeval wildness. 

" Here," cried Asem, " I perceive animals of 
prey, and others that seem only designed for their 
subsistence ; it is the very same in the world over 
our heads. But had I been permitted to instruct 
our Prophet, I would have removed this defect, 
and formed no voracious or destructive animals, 
which only prey on the other parts of the creation." 
" Your tenderness for inferior animals is, I find, 
remarkable," said the Genius smiling. But vdih 
regard to meaner creatures this world exactly re- 



sembles the other, and indeed for obvious reasons ; 
for the earth can support a more considerable num- 
ber of animals, by their thus becoming food for 
each other, than if they had lived entirely on her 
vegetable productions. So that animals of differ- 
ent natures thus formed, instead of lessening their 
multitude, subsist in the greatest number possible. 
But let us hasten on to the inhabited country be- 
fore us, and see what that ofi'ers for instruction." 

They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, 
and entered the country inhabited by men without 
vice ; and Asem anticipated in idea the rational de- 
Ught he hoped to experience in such an innocent 
society. But they had scarcely left the confines of 
the wood, when they beheld one of the inhabitants 
flying with hasty steps, and terror in his counte- 
nance, from an army of squirrels that closely pur- 
sued him. " Heavens !" cried Asem, " why does 
he fly 7 What can he fear from animals so con- 
temptible?" He had scarcely spoken when he 
perceived two dogs pursuing another of the human 
species, who with equal terror and haste attempted 
to avoid them. " This," cried Asem to his guide, 
" is truly surprising ; nor can I conceive the rea- 
son for so strange an action." Every species of 
animals," replied the Genius, " has of late grown 
very powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants 
at first thinking it unjust to use either fraud or 
force in destroying them, they have insensibly in- 
creased, and now frequently ravage their harmless 
frontiers." "But they should have been destroy- 
ed," cried Asem; "you see the consequence of 
such neglect." " Where is then that tenderness 
you so lately expressed for subordinate animals T' 
repUed the Genius smiling; " you seem to have for- 
got that branch of justice." " I must acknowledge 
my mistake," returned Asem ; " I am now con- 
vinced that we must be guilty of tyranny and in- 
justice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the 
world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the 
duty of man to these irrational creatures, but sur- 
vey their connexions with one another." 

As they wallced farther up the country, the more 
he was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome 
houses, no cities, nor any mark of elegant design. 
His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed, 
that the inhabitants of this new world were per- 
fectly content with their ancient simplicity ; each 
had a house, which, though homely, was sufficient 
to lodge his little family ; they were too good to 
build houses which could only increase their own 
pride, and the envy of the spectator ; what they 
built was for convenience, and not for show. " At 
least, then," said Asem, "they have neither archi- 
tects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; but 
these are idle arts, and may be spared. However, 
before I spend much more time, you should have 
my thanks for introducing me into the society of 
some of their wisest men : there is scarcely any 



480 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation ; 
there is nothing of which I am so much enamour- 
ed as wisdom." " Wisdom !" replied his instruc- 
tor, "how ridiculous ! We have no vdsdom here, 
for we have no occasion for it ; true wisdom is only 
a knowledge of our ovra duty, and the duty of 
others to us ; but of what use is such wisdom here! 
each intuitively performs what is right in himself, 
and expects the same from others. If by wisdom 
you should mean vain curiosity, and empty specu- 
lation, as such pleasures have their origin in vani- 
ty, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue 
them. " AH this may be right, " says Asem ; " but 
methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail 
among the people ; each family keeps separately 
within their own precincts, without society, or with- 
out intercourse." " That indeed is true," replied 
the other; "here is no estabhshed society; nor 
should there be any ; all societies are made either 
through fear or friendship: the people we are 
among are too good to fear each other ; and there 
are no motives to private friendship, where all are 
equally meritorious." "Well, then," said the 
sceptic, "as I am to spend my time here, if I 
am to have neither the pohte arts, nor wisdom, nor 
friendship, in such a world, I should be glad at 
least of an easy companion, who may tell me his 
thoughts, and to whom I may communicate mine." 
"And to what purpose should either do this? " says 
the Genius : "flattery or curiosity are vicious mo- 
tives, and never allowed of here ; and wisdom is 
out of the question." 

"Still, however," said Asem, " the inhabitants 
must be happy ; each is contented with his own 
possessions, nor avariciously endeavours to heap 
up more than is necessary for his own subsistence ; 
each has therefore leisure for pitying those that 
stand in need of his compassion." He had scarce- 
ly spoken when his ears were assaulted with the 
lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way-side, 
and, in the most deplorable distress, seemed gently 
to murmur at his own misery. Asem immediate- 
ly ran to his relief, and found him in the last stage 
of a consumption. "Strange," cried the son of 
Adam, " that men who are free from vice should 
thus suiTer so much misery without relief! " " Be 
not surprised," said the wretch who was dying: 
" would it not be the utmost injustice for beings, 
who have only just sufficient to support themselves, 
and are content '■.vith a bare subsistence, to take it 
from their own mouths to put it into mine? They 
never are possessed of a single meal more than is 
necessary; and what is barely necessary can not be 
dispensed with." " They should have been sup- 
plied with more than is necessary," cried Asem; 
" and yet I contradict my own opinion but a mo- 
ment before; — all is doubt, perplexity, and con- 
fusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue 
here, since they never received a favour. They 



have, however, another excellence yet behind ; the 
love of their country is still I hope one of their 
darling virtues." "Peace, Asem," replied the 
Guardian, with a countenance not less severe than 
beautiful, "nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wis- 
dom : the same selfish motives by which we prefer 
our own interest to that of others, induce us to re- 
gard our country preferably to that of another. 
Nothing less than universal benevolence is free 
from vice, and that you see is practised here." 
" Strange ! " cries the disappointed pilgrim, in an 
agony of distress ; " what sort of a world am I now 
introduced to? There is scarcely a single virtue, 
but that of temperance, which they practise ; and 
in that they are no way superior to the very brute 
creation. There is scarcely an amusement which 
they enjoy; fortitude, liberahty, friendship, wisdom, 
conversation, and love of country, all are virtues 
entirely unknown here : thus it seems that to be 
acquainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take 
me, O my Genius, back to that very world which 
I have despised : a world which has Alia for its 
contriver is much more wisely formed than that 
which has been projected by Mahomet. Ingrati- 
tude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, for 
perhaps I have deserved them. When I arraigned 
the wisdom of Providence, I only showed my own 
ignorance : henceforth let me keep from vice my- 
self, and pity it in others." 

He had scarcely ended, when the Genius, as- 
suming an air of terrible complacency, called all 
his thunders around him, and vanished in a whirl- 
wind. Asem, astonished at the terror of the scene, 
looked for his imaginary world ; when, casting his 
eyes around, he perceived himself in the very situa- 
tion, and in the very place, where he first began to 
repine and despair ; his right foot had been just ad- 
vanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet 
withdrawn ; so instantly did Providence strike the 
series of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now 
departed from the water-side in tranquillity, and 
leaving his horrid mansion, travelled to Segestan, 
his native city ; where he diligently appUed himself 
to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he 
had learned in solitude. The frugahty of a fev/ 
years soon produced opulence; the number of 
his domestics increased ; his friends came to him 
from every part of the city ; nor did he receive them 
with disdain : and a youth of misery was concluded 
with an old age of elegance, affluence, and ease. 



ESSAY IV. 

It is allowed on all hands, that our Enghsh di- 
vines receive a more liberal education, and improve 
that education by frequent study, more than any 
others of this reverend profession in Europe. In 
general also it may be observed, that a greater de- 



ESSAYS. 



m. 



gree of gentility is affixed to the character of a 
student in England than elsewhere; by which 
means our clergy have an opportunity of seeing 
better company while young, and of sooner wear- 
ing off those prejudices which they are apt to im- 
bibe even in the best regulated universities, and 
which may be justly termed the vulgar errors of 
the wise. 

Yet, with all these advantagesj it is very obvious, 
that the clergy are no where so little thought of by 
the populace as here : and though our divines are 
foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found 
last in the effects of their ministry ; the vulgar in 
general appearing no way impressed with a sense 
of religious duty. I am not for whining at the de- 
pravity of the times, or for endeavouring to paint a 
prospect more gloomy than in nature ; but certain 
it is, no person who has travelled will contradict 
me when I aver, that the lower orders of mankind, 
in other countries, testify on every occasion the pro- 
foundest awe of religion ; while in England they 
are scarcely awakened into a sense of its duties, 
even in circumstances of the greatest distress. 

This dissolute and fearless conduct, foreigners 
are apt to attribute to climate and constitution : 
may not the vulgar, being pretty much neglected 
in our exhortations from the pulpit, be a conspiring 
cause? Our divines seldom stoop to their mean 
capacities ; and they who want instruction most, 
find least in our religious assemblies. 

Whatever may become of the higher orders of 
mankind, who are generally possessed of collateral 
motives to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly 
regarded, whose behaviour in civil life is totally 
hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those who 
constitute the basis of the great fabric of society 
should be particularly regarded ; for in policy, as in 
architecture, ruin is most fatal when it begins from 
the bottom. 

Men of real sense and understanding prefer a 
prudent mediocrity to a precarious popularity ; and, 
fearing to outdo their duty, leave it half done. 
Their discourses from the pulpit are generally dry, 
methodical, and unaffecting; delivered with the 
most insipid calmness ; insomuch, that should the 
peaceful preacher lift his head over the cushion, 
which alone he seems to address, he might discover 
his audience, instead of being awakened to re- 
morse, actually sleeping over his methodical and 
laboured composition. 

This method of preaching is, however, by some 
called an address to reason, and not to the passions ; 
this is styled the making of converts from convic- 
tion: but such are indifferently acquainted with 
human nature, who are not sensible, that men sel- 
dom reason about their debaucheries till they are 
committed ; reason is but a weak antagonist when 
headlong passion dictates; in all such cases we 
should arm one passion against another: it is with J 
31 



the human mind as in nature, from the mixture of 
two opposites the result is most frequently neutral 
tranquillity. Those who attempt to reason us out 
of our follies begin at the wrong end, since the at- 
tempt naturally presupposes us capable of reason ; 
but to be made capable of this, is one great jioint 
of the cure. 

There are but few talents requisite to become st 
popular preacher, for the people are easily pleased 
if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to 
please them ; the meanest qualifications will work 
this effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. 
Perhaps little, indeed very little, more is required 
than sincerity and assurance ; and a becoming sin- 
cerity is always certain of producing a becoming 
assurance. " Si vi? me Jl^ere, dolendum est primum 
tibi ipsi," is so trite a quotation, that it almost de- 
mands an apology to repeat it; yet, though all allow 
the justice of the remark, how few do we find put 
it in practice! Our orators, with the most faulty 
bashfulness, seem impressed rather with an awe of 
their audience, than with a just respect for the 
truths they are about to deliver ; they, of all pro- 
fessions, seem the most bashful, who have the 
greatest right to glory in their commission. 

The French preachers generally assume all that 
dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors 
from Christ : the English divines, like erroneous 
envoys, seem more solicitous not to offend the court 
to which they are sent, than to drive home the in- 
terests of their employer. Massilon, bishop of 
Clermont, in the first sermon he ever preached, 
found the whole audience, upon his getting into 
the pulpit, in a disposition no way favourable to 
his intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy be- 
haviour, showed him that there was no great profit 
to be expected from hk sowing in a soil so improper; 
however, he soon changed the disposition of his 
audience by his manner of beginning : "If," says 
he, "a cause, the most important that could be 
conceived, were to be tried at the bar before quah^ 
fied judges; if this cause interested ourselves in 
particular ; if the eyes of the whole kingdom were 
fixed upon the event; if the most eminent counsel 
were employed on both sides; and if we had heard 
from our infancy of this yet undetermined trial; 
would you not all sit with due attention, and warm 
expectation, to the pleadings on each side? Would 
not all your hopes and fears he hinged upon the 
final decision? And yet, let me tell you, you have 
this moment a cause of much greater importance 
before you ; a cause where not one nation, but all 
the world are spectators ; tried not before a fallitile 
tribunal, but the awful throne of Heaven; where 
not your temporal and transitory interests are the 
subject of debate, but your eternal happiness or 
misery, where the cause is still undetermined ; but 
perhaps the very momenl I ain speaking may fix 
the irrevocable decree that shall last for ever; aud 



482 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit 
■with patience to hear the tidings of your own salva- 
tion : I plead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am 
scarcely attended to," &c. 

The style, the abruptness of a beginning like 
this, in the closet would appear absurd; but in the 
pulpit it is attended with the most lasting impres- 
sions: that style which in the closet might justly 
be called flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence 
here. I never read a fine composition under the 
title of a sermon, that I do not think the author ha,s 
miscalled his piece ; for the talents to be used in 
writing well, entirely differ from those of speaking 
well. The qualifications for speaking, as has been 
already observed, are easily acquired ; they are ac- 
compUshments which may be taken up by every 
candidate who will be at the pains of stooping. 
Impressed with the sense of the truths he is 
about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause 
or the contempt of his audience, and he insensibly 
assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this 
talent alone, we see what crowds are drawn around 
enthusiasts, even destitute of common sense ; what 
numbers are converted to Christianity. Folly may 
sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise ; 
and our regular divines may borrow instruction 
from even methodists, who go their circuits and 
preach prizes among the populace. Even Whit- 
field may be placed as a model to some of our young 
divines ; let them join to their own good sense his 
earnest manner of delivery. 

It will be perhaps objected, that by confining 
the excellencies of a preacher to proper assurance, 
earnestness, and openness of style, I make the 
qualifications too trifling for estimation : there will 
be something called oratory brought up on this oc- 
casion ; action, attitude, grace, elocution, may be 
repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the 
character : but let us not be deceived ; common 
sense is seldom swayed by fine tones, musical pe- 
riods, just attitudes, or the display of a white hand- 
kerchief; oratorial behaviour except in very able 
hands indeed, generally sinks into awkward and 
paltry affectation. 

It must be observed, however, that these rules 
are calculated only for him who would instruct the 
vulgar, who stand in most need of instruction ; to 
address philosophers, and to obtain the character 
of a polite preacher among the polite — a much more 
useless, though more sought for character — re- 
quires a different method of proceeding. All I 
shall observe on this head is, to entreat the polemic 
divine, in his controversy with the Deists, to act 
rather offensively than to defend; to push home 
the grounds of his belief, and the impracticability 
of theirs, rather than to spend time in solving the 
objections of every opponent. " It is ten to one," 
says a late writer on the art of war, "but that the 



assailant who attacks the enemy in his trenches is 
always victorious." 

Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ 
themselves more to the benefit of society, by declm- 
ing all controversy, than by exhibiting even the 
profoundest skill in polemic disputes: their con- 
tests with each other often turn on speculative 
trifles ; and their disputes with the Deists are al- 
most at an end, since they can have no more than 
victory, and that they are already possessed of, as 
their antagonists have been driven into a confes- 
sion of the necessity of revelation, or an open 
avowal of atheism. To continue the dispute longer 
would only endanger it; the sceptic is ever expert 
at puzzling a debate which he finds himself unable 
to continue, " and, like an Olympic boxer, gene- 
rally fights best when undermost." 



ESSAY V. 

The improvements we make in mental acquire- 
ments only render us each day more sensible of the 
defects of our constitution : with this in view, 
therefore, let us often recur to the amusements of 
youth, endeavour to forget age and wisdom, and, 
as far as innocence goes, be as much a boy as the 
best of them. 

Let idle declaimers, mourn over the degeneracy 
of the age ; but in my opinion every age is the 
same. This I am sure of, that man in every sea- 
son is a poor fretful being, with no other means to 
escape the calamities of the times but by endeavour- 
ing to forget them ; for if he attempts to resist, he 
is certainly undone. If I feel poverty and pain, I am 
not so hardy as to qua'Tel with the executioner, even 
while under correction : I find myself no way 
disposed to making fine speeches while I am mak- 
ing wry faces. In a word, let me drink when the 
fit is on, to make me insensible ; and drink when 
it is over, for joy that I feel pain no longer. 

The character of old Falstaff, even with all his 
faults, gives me more consolation than the most 
studied efforts of wisdom : I here behold an agreea- 
ble old fellow, forgetting age, and showing me the 
way to be young at sixty -five. Sure I am well able 
to be as merry, though not so comical as he — Is it 
not in my power to have, though not so much wit, 
at least as much vivacity? — Age, care, wisdom, re- 
flection begone — I give you to the winds. Let's 
have t'other bottle : here's to the memory of Shak- 
speare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of East 
cheap. 

Such were the reflections that naturally arose 
while I sat at the Boar's-Head Tavern, still kept 
at Eastcheap. Here by a pleasant fire, in the very 
room where old John Falstaff cracked his jokes, iji 
the very chair which was sometimes honoured by 



ESSAYS. 



483 



Prince Henry, and sometimes polluted by his im- 
moral merry companions, I sat and ruminated on 
the follies of youth ; wished to be young again, but 
was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted ; 
and now and then compared past and present times 
together. I considered myself as the only living 
representative of the old knight, and transported 
my imagination back to the times when the prince 
and he gave life to the revel, and made even de- 
bauchery not disgusting. The room also conspired 
to throw my reflections back into antiquity : the 
oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous 
chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth of 
time ; the watchman had gone twelve ; my com- 
panions had all stolen ofl"; and none now remained 
with me but the landlord. From him I could have 
wished to know the history of a tavern, that had 
such a long succession of customers : 1 could not 
help thinking that an account of this kind would 
be a pleasing contrast of the manners of difl!erent 
ages ; but my landlord could give me no informa- 
tion. He continued to doze and sot, and tell a te- 
dious story, as most other landlords usually do, 
and, though he said nothing, yet was never silent; 
one good joke followed another good joke; and the 
best joke of all was generally begun towards the 
end of a bottle. I found at last, however, his wine 
and his conversation operate by degrees: he in- 
sensibly began to alter his appearance ; his cravat 
seemed quilled into a ruflT, and his breeches swelled 
out into a fardingale. 1 now fancied him chang- 
ing sexes ; and as my eyes began to close in slum- 
ber, I imagined my fat landlord actually converted 
into as fat a landlady. However, sleep made but 
few changes in m\' situation : the tavern, the apart- 
ment, and the table, continued as before ; nothing 
suffered mutation but my host, who was fairly al- 
tered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be 
Dame duickly, mistress of this tavern in the days 
of Sir John, and the liquor we were drinking, 
which seemed converted into sack and sugar. 

"My dear Mrs. CLuickly," cried I (for I knew 
her perfectly well at first sight), " I am heartily 
glad to see you. How have you left FalstaffJ Pis- 
tol, and the rest of our friends below stairs? Brave 
and hearty, I hope 1" — " In good sooth," replied 
she, " he did deserve to live for ever ; but he maketh 
foul work on't where he hath flitted. Clueen Pro- 
serpine and he have quarrelled for his attempting 
a rape upon her divinity; and were it not that she 
still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems 
probable he might have been now sprawling in 
Tartarus." 

I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties 
of the flesh ; and that, according to the laws of cri- 
ticism and dreaming, ghosts have been known to 
be guilty of even more than platonic affection : 
wherefore, as I found her too much moved on such 
a topic to proceed, I was resolved to change the 



subject, and desiring she would pledge me in a 
bumper, observed with a sigh, that our sack was 
nothing now to what it was in former days : " Ah, 
Mrs. Q,uickly, those were merry times when you 
drew sack for Prince Henry : men were twice as 
strong, and twice as wise, and much braver, and 
ten thousand times more charitable than now. 
Those were the times ! The battle of Agincourt 
was a victory indeed ! Ever since that we have 
only been degenerating ; and I have lived to see the 
day when drinking is no longer fashionable, when 
men wear clean shirts, and women show their 
necks and arms. All are degenerated, Mrs. GLuick- 
ly ; and we shall probably, in another century, be 
frittered away into beaux or monkeys. Had you 
been on earth to see what I have seen, it would 
congeal all the blood in your body (your soul, I 
mean). Why, our very nobility now have the in- 
tolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day 
remonstrated from the press ; our very nobility, I 
say, have the assurance to frequent assemblies, and 
presume to be as merry as the vulgar. See, my 
very friends have scarcely manhood enough to sit 
to it till eleven ; and I only am left to make a night 
on't. Prithee do me the favour to console me a 
little for their absence by the story of your own ad- 
ventures, or the history of the tavern where we are 
now sitting : I fancy the narrative may have some- 
thing singular." 

" Observe this apartment," interrupted my com- 
panion ; " of neat device, and excellent workman- 
ship — In this room I have lived, child, woman, and 
ghost, more than three hundred years: I am ordered 
by Pluto to keep an annual register of every trans- 
action that passeth here ; and I have whilom com- 
piled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons may be 
submitted to thy regards." "None of your whiloms 
or eftsoons. Mrs. Q,uickly, if you please," I replied: 
" I know you can talk every whit as well as I can j 
for, as you have lived here so long it is but natural 
to suppose you should learn the conversation of the 
company. Believe me, dame, at best, you have 
neither too much sense, nor too much language to 
spare; so give me both as well as you can : but first, 
my service to you; old women should water their 
clay a little now and then ; and now to your story." 
" The story of my own adventures," replied the 
vision, " is but short and unsatisfactory ; for, be- 
lieve me, Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman 
with a butt of sack at her elbow is never long-lived. 
Sir John's death afflicted me to such a degree, that 
I sincerely believe, to drown sorrow, I drank moi;e 
liquor myself than I drew for my customers : my 
grief was sincere, and the sack was excellent. The 
prior of a neighbouring convent (for ous priors then 
had as much power as a Middlesex Justice now)> 
he, I say, it was who gave me a license for keep- 
ing a disorderly house, upon condition that I should 
never make hard bargains, with the clergy, that he 



484 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



should have a bottle of sack every morning, and 
the liberty of confessing which of my girls he 
thought proper in private every night. I had con- 
tinued for several years to pay this tribute ; and he, 
it must be confessed, continued as rigorously to 
exact it. I grew old insensibly; my customers con- 
tinued, however, to compliment my looks while I 
■ was by, but I could hear them say I was wearing 
when my back was turned. The prior, however, 
still was constant, and so were half his convent ; 
but one fatal morning he missed the usual beverage, 
for I had incautiously drank over-night the last 
bottle myself. "What will you have on'tl— The 
very next day Dol Tearsheet and I were sent to 
the house of correction, and accused of keeping a 
low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well 
purified there with stripes, mortification, and pen- 
ance, that we were afterwards utterly unfit for 
worldly conversation; though sack would have 
killed me, had I stuck to it, yet I soon died for want 
of a drop of something comfortable, and fairly left 
my body to the care of the beadle. 

" Such is my own history ; but that of the tavern, 
where I have ever since been stationed, affords 
greater variety. In the history of this, which is 
one of the oldest in London, you may view the 
different manners, pleasures, and follies of men, at 
different periods. You will find mankind neither 
better nor worse now than formerly ; the vices of an 
uncivilized people are generally more detestable, 
though not so frequent, as those in polite society. 
It is the same luxury, which formerly stuffed your 
alderman with plum-porridge, and now crams him 
with turtle. It is the same low ambition, that for- 
merly induced a courtier to give up his religion to 
please his king, and now persuades him to give up 
his conscience to please his minister. It is the 
same vanity, that formerly stained our ladies' cheeks 
and necks with woad, and now paints them with 
carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered 
his hair with red earth, Uke brick-dust, in order to 
appear frightful : your modern Briton cuts his hair 
on the crown, and plasters it with hog's-lard and 
flour ; and this to make him look killing. It is the 
same vanity, the same folly, and the same vice, 
only appearing different, as viewed through the 
glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind are a — " 
" Sure the woman is dreaming," interrupted I. 
"None of your reflections, Mrs. CLuickly, if you 
love me ; they only give me the spleen. Tell me 
your history at once. 1 love stories, but hate rea- 
soning." 

" If you please, then, sir," returned my com- 
panion, I'll read you an abstract which I made of 
the three hundred volumes I mentioned just now. 
" My body was no sooner laid in the dust than 
the prior and several of his convent came to purify 



room, reliques were exposed upon every piece of 
furniture, and the whole house washed with a de- 
luge of holy water. My habitation was soon con- 
verted into a monastery ; instead of customers novr 
applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowd- 
ed with images, reUques, saints, whores, and friars. 
Instead of being a scene of occasional debauchery, 
it was now filled with continual lewdness. The 
prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imi- 
tated his pious example. Matrons came hither to 
confess their sins, and to commit new. Virgins 
came hither who seldom went virgins away. Nor 
was this a convent peculiarly wicked ; every con- 
vent at that period was equally fond of pleasure, 
and gave a boundless loose to appetite. The laws 
allowed it ; each priest had a right to a favourite 
companion, and a power of discarding her as often 
as he pleased. The laity grumbled, quarrelled 
with their wives and daughters, hated their con- 
fessors, and maintained them in opulence and ease. 
These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole ; 
these were times of piety, bravery, and simplicity." 
"Not so very happy, neither, good Madam; pretty 
much like the present — those that labour starve, 
and those that do nothing wear fine clothes, and 
live in luxury." 

" In this manner the fathers lived for some years 
without molestation ; they transgressed, confessed 
themselves to each other, and were forgiven. One 
evening, however, our prior keeping a lady of dis- 
tinction somewhat too long at confession, her hus- 
band unexpectedly came upon them, and testified 
all the indignation which was natural upon such 
an occasion. The prior assured the gentleman 
that it was the devil who put it into his heart; and 
the lady was very certain that she was under the 
infiuence of magic, or she could never have be- 
haved in so unfaithful a manner. The husband, 
however, was not to be put ofl" by such evasions, 
but summoned both before the tribunal of justice. 
His proofs were flagrant, and he expected large 
damages. Such indeed he had a right to expect, 
were the tribunals of those days constituted in the 
same manner as they are now. The cause of the 
priest was to be tried before an assembly of priests ; 
and a layman was to expect redress only from their 
impartiaUty and candour. What plea then do you 
think the prior made to obviate this accusation 1 
He denied the fact, and challenged the plaintiff 
to try the merits of their cause by single combat. 
It was a little hard, you may be sure, upon the 
poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, but 
to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet 
such was the justice of the tunes. The prior 
threw down his glove, and the injured husband 
was obliged to take it up, in token of his accept- 
inff the challenge. Upon this the priest supplied 



the tavern from the pollutions with which they his champion, for it was not lawful for the clergy 
said I had filled it. Masses were said in every ! to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, according 



ESSAYS. 



485 



to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to 
fast and pray, every method being previously used 
to induce both to a confession of the truth. After 
a month's imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, 
the bodies anointed with oil, the field of battle 
appointed and guarded by soldiers, while his ma- 
jesty presided over the whole in person. Both the 
champions were sworn not to seek victory either 
by fraud or magic. They prayed and confessed 
upon their knees ; and after these ceremonies the 
rest was left to the courage and conduct of the 
combatants. As the champion whom the prior 
had pitched upon had fought six or eight times 
upon similar occasions, it was no way extraordi- 
nary to find him victorious in the present combat. 
In short, the husband was discomfited ; he was 
taken from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, 
and after one of his legs had been cut off, as jus- 
tice ordained in such cases, he was hanged as a 
terror to future offenders. These, these were the 
times, Mr. Rigmarole ; you see how much more 
just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were than 
us." — " I rather fancy, madam, that the times then 
were pretty much like our own ; where a multi- 
plicity of laws gives a judge as much power as a 
want of law, since he is ever sure to find among 
the number some to countenance his partiality." 

"Our convent, victorious over their enemies, 
now gave a loose to every demonstration of joy. 
The lady became a nun, the prior was made a 
bishop, and three Wickliffites were burned in the 
illuminations and fire- works that were made on the 
present occasion. Our convent now began to en- 
joy a very high degree of reputation. There was 
not one in London that had the character of hating 
heretics so much as ours : ladies of the first dis- 
tinction chose from our convent their confessors. 
In short, it flourished, and might have flourished 
to this hour, but for a fatal accident which termi- 
nated in its overthrow. The lady, whom the prior 
had placed in a nunnery, and whom he continued 
to visit for some time with great punctuahty, be- 
gan at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken. 
Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now en- 
tertained the visions of a devotee ; found herself 
strangely disturbed ; but hesitated in determining 
whether she was possessed by an angel or a demon. 
She was not long in suspense ; for upon vomiting 
a large quantity of crooked pins, and finding the 
palms of her hands turned outwards, she quickly 
concluded that she was possessed by the devil. 
She soon lost entirely the use of speech ; and, 
when she seemed to speak, every body that was 
present perceived that her voice was not her own, 
but that of the devil within her. In short, she was 
bewitched ; and all the diflSculty lay in determin- 
ing who it could be that bewitched her. The 
nuns and the monks all demanded the magician's 
name, but the devil made no reply ; for he knew 



that they had no authority to ask questions. By 
the rules of witchcraft, when an evii spirit has 
taken possession, he may refuse to answer any 
questions asked him, unless they are put by a 
bishop, and to these he is obliged to reply. A 
bishop therefore was sent for, and now the whole 
secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned that 
he was a servant of the prior ; that by his com- 
mand he resided in his present habitation, and that 
without his command he was resolved to keep in 
possession. The bishop was an able exorcist ; he 
drove the devil out by force of mystical arms ; the 
prior was arraigned for witchcraft ; the witnesses 
were strong and numerous against him, not less 
than fourteen persons being by, who heard the 
devil talk Latin. There was no resisting such a 
cloud of witnesses; the prior was condemned; 
and he who had assisted at so many burnings, was 
burned himself in turn. These were times, Mr. 
Rigmarole ; the people of those times v/ere not in- 
fidels, as now, but sincere believers !" — " Equally 
faulty with ourselves ; they believed what the devil 
was pleased to tell them, and we seem resolved at 
last to beUeve neither God nor devil." 

" After such a stain upon the convent, it was 
not to be supposed it could subsist any longer; the 
fathers were ordered to decamp, and the house was 
once again converted into a tavern. The king 
conferred it on one of his cast mistresses ; she was 
constituted landlady by royal authority, and as 
the tavern was in the neighbourhood of the court, 
and the mistress a very poUte woman, it began to 
have more business than ever, and sometimes took 
not less than four shilUngs a-day. 

" But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what 
were the pecuhar qualifications of a woman of 
fashion at that period ; and in a description of the 
present landlady you will have a tolerable idea of all 
the rest. This lady was the daughter of a noble- 
man, and received such an education in the coun- 
try as became her quality, beauty, and great ex- 
pectations. She could make shifts and hose for 
herself and all the servants of the family, when she 
was twelve years old. She knew the names of the 
four-and-twenty letters, so that it was impossible to 
bewitch her ; and this was a greater piece of learn- 
ing than any lady in the whole country could pre- 
tend to. She was always up early, and saw break- 
fast served in the great hall by six o'clock. At this 
scene of festivity, she generally improved good-hu- 
mour by teUing her dreams, relating stories of spi- 
rits, several of which she herself had seen, and one 
of which she was reported to have killed with a 
black-hafted knife. Hence she usually went to 
make pastry in the larder, and here she was follow- 
ed by her sweethearts, who were much helped on 
in conversation by struggling with her for kisses. 
About ten. Miss generally went to play at hot- 
cockles and blind-man's buff in the parlour; and 



486 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



when the young folks (for they seldom played at 
hot-cockles when grown old) were tired of such 
amusements, the gentleman entertained Miss with 
the history of their greyhounds, bear-baitings, and 
victories at cudgel-playing. If the weather was 
fine, they ran at the ring, shot at butts, while Miss 
held in her hand a riband, with which she adorned 
the conqueror. Her mental qualifications were 
exactly fitted to her external accomplishments. 
Before she was fifteen she could tell the story of 
Jack the Giant Killer, could name every mountain 
that was inhabited by fairies, knew a witch at first 
sight, and could repeat four Latin prayers without 
a prompter. Her dress was perfectly fashionable ; 
her arms and her hair were completely covered ; a 
monstrous rufl!" was put round her neck, so that her 
head seemed like that of John the Baptist placed 
in a charger. In short, when completely equipped, 
her appearance was so very modest, that she dis- 
covered little more than her nose. These were the 
times, Mr. Rigmarole ; when every lady that had 
a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when every 
woman that could tell stories might be cried up for 
a wit." — " I am as much displeased at those dresses 
which conceal too much, as at those which discov- 
er too much ; I am equally an enemy to a female 
dunce or a female pedant." 

" You may be sure that Miss chose a husband 
with qualifications resembling her own ; she pitch- 
ed upon a courtier, equally remarkable for hunting 
and drinking, who had given several proofs of his 
great virility among the daughters of his tenants 
and domestics. They fell in love at first sight (for 
such was the gallantry of the times), were married, 
came to court, and Madam appeared with superior 
qualifications. The king was struck with her 
beauty. AH property was at the king's command: 
the husband was obliged to resign all pretensions 
in his wife to the sovereign, whom God had anoint- 
ed to commit adultery where he thought proper. 
The king loved her for some time ; but at length 
repenting of his misdeeds, and instigated by his 
father -confessor, from a principle of conscience re- 
jnoved her from his levee to the bar of this tavern, 
and took a new mistress in her stead. Let it not 
surprise you to behold the! mistress of a king de- 
graded to so humble an office. As the ladies had 
no menta;! accomplishments, a good face was 
enough to raise them to the royal couch ; and she 
who was this day a royal mistress, might the next, 
when her beauty palled upon enjoyment, be doom- 
ed to infamy and want. 

*' Under the care of this lady the tavern grew 
into great reputation ; the courtiers had not yet 
learned to game, but they paid it off by drinking ; 
drunkenness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and 
garrang of a luxurious age. They had not such 
frequent entertainments as the moderns have, but 
jyere more .expensive and more luxurious in 



those they had. All their fooleries were more 
elaborate, and more admired by the great and the 
vulgar than now. A courtier has been known 
to spend his whole fortune at a single feast, a 
king to mortgage his dominions to furnish out 
the frippery of a tournament. There were certain 
days appointed for riot and debauchery, and to be 
sober at such times was reputed a crime . Kings 
themselves set the example ; and I have seen mo- 
narchs in this room drunk before the entertainment 
was half concluded. These were the times, sir, 
when kings kept mistresses, and got drunk in pub- 
lic ; they were too plain and simple in those happy 
times, to hide their vices, and act the hypocrite 
as now." — "Lord! Mrs. Q-uickly," interrupting 
her, " I expected to have heard a story, and here you 
are going to tell me I know not what of times and 
vices ; prithee let me entreat thee once more to 
wave reflections, and give thy history without de- 
viation." 

"Nolady upon earth," continued my visionary 
correspondent, " knew how to put off her damaged 
wine or women with more art than she. When 
these grew flat, or those paltry, it was but changing 
the names : the wine became excellent, and the 
girls agreeable. She was also possessed of the en- 
gaging leer, the chuck under the chin, winked at 
a double entendre, could nick the opportunity of 
calling for something comfortable, and perfectly 
understood the discreet moments when to with- 
draw. The gallants of these times pretty much 
resembled the bloods of ours ; they were fond of 
pleasure, but quite ignorant of the art of refining 
upon it ; thus a court bawd of those times resem- 
bled the common low-lived harridan of a modern 
bagnio. Witness, ye powers of debauchery, how 
often I have been present at the various appear- 
ances of drunkenness, riot, guilt, and brutality! A 
tavern is the true picture of human infirmity :. in 
history we find only one side of the age exhibited 
to our view ; but in the accounts of a tavern we see 
every age equally absurd and equally vicious. 

' Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was suc- 
cessively occupied by adventures, bullies, pimps, 
and gamesters. Towards the conclusion of the 
reign of Henry Vll. gaming was more universal- 
ly practised in England than even now. Kings 
themselves have been known to play off at Prime- 
ro, not only all the money and jewels they could 
part with, but the very images in churches. The 
last Henry played away, in this very room, not 
only the four great bells of St. Paul's cathedral, 
but the fine image of St. Paul which stood upon 
the top of the spire, to Sir Miles Partridge, who 
took them down the next day, and sold them by 
auction. Have you then any cause to regret being 
born in the times you now live in ; or do you still 
believe that human nature continues to run on de- 
cUning every age 1 If we observe the actions of 



ESSAYS. 



4a7 



the busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be 
found infinitely more gross, servile, and even dis- 
honest than you. If, forsaking history, we only 
trace them in their hours of amusement and dissi- 
pation, we shall find them more sensual, more 
entirely devoted to pleasure, and infinitely more 
selfish. 

" The last hostess of note I find upon record was 
Jane Rouse. She was born among the lower 
ranks of the people ; and by frugality and extreme 
complaisance, contrived to acquire a moderate for- 
tune ; this she might have enjoyed for many years, 
had she not unfortunately quarrelled with one of 
her neighbours, a woman who was in high repute 
for sanctity through the whole parish. In the 
times of which I speak, two women seldom quar- 
relled that one did not accuse the other of witch 
craft, and she who first contrived to vomit crooked 
pins was sure to come off victorious. The scandal 
of a modern tea-table differs widely from the scan- 
dal of former times : the fascination of a lady's 
eyes at present is regarded as a compliment : but 
if a lady formerly should be accused of having 
witchcraft in her eyes, it were much better both for 
her soul and body that she had no eyes at all. 

" In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witch- 
craft ; and though she made the best defence she 
could, it was all to no purpose ; she was taken from 
her own bar to the bar of the Old Bailey, condemn- 
ed, jtnd executed accordingly. These were times 
indeed, when even women could not scold in safetyl 

" Since her time the tavern underwent several 
revolutions, according to the spirit of the times, or 
the disposition of the reigning monarch. It was 
this day a brothel, and the next a conventicle of 
enthusiasts. It was one year noted for harbouring 
whigs, and the next infamous for a retreat to to- 
nes. Some years ago it was in high vogue, but 
at present it seems declining. This only may be 
remarked in general, that whenever taverns flourish 
most, the times are then most extravagant and 
luxurious." "Lord! Mrs. CLuickly," interrupted 
I, " you have really deceived me ; 1 expected a ro- 
mance, and here you have been this half hour giv- 
ing me only a description of the spirit of the times ; 
if you have nothing but tedious remarks to com- 
municate, seek some other hearer; I am determin- 
ed to hearken only to stories." 

I had scarcely concluded, when my eyes and 
ears seemed open to my landlord, who had been all 
this while giving me an account of the repairs he 
had made in the house ; and was now got into the 
story of the cracked glass in the dining-room. 



ESSAY VI. 

I AM fond of amusement in whatever company 
it is to be found ; and wit, though dressed in rags. 



is ever pleasing to me. I went some days ago to 
take a walk in St. James's Park, about the hour 
in which company leave it to go to dinner. There 
were but few in the walks, and those who stayed 
seemed by their looks rather more wilUng to forget 
that they had an appetite than gain one. I sat 
down on one of the benches, at the other end of 
which was seated a man in very shabby clothes. 

We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as 
usual upon such occasions; and at last ventured upon 
conversation. "I beg pardon, sir," cried I, "but I 
think I have seen you before; your face is familiar to 
me." " Yes, sir," replied he, " I have a good familiar 
face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known 
in every town in England as the dromedary, or live 
crocodile. You must understand, sir, that 1 have 
been these sixteen years Merry Andrew to a pup- 
pet-show : last Bartholomew-fair my master and I 
quarrelled, beat each other, and parted; he to sell 
his puppets to the pincushion-makers in Rosemary- 
lane, and I to starve in St. James's Park." 

" I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appear- 
ance should labour under any difficulties." — " O 
sir," returned he, " my appearance is very much 
at your service ; but, though I can not boast of eat- 
ing much, yet there are few that are merrier: if I 
had twenty thousand a-year I should be very mer- 
ry; and, thank the Fates, though not worth a 
groat, I am very merry still. If I have threepence 
in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three-half- 
pence ; and if I have no money, I never scorn to be 
treated by any that are kind enough to pay my 
reckoning. What think you, sir, of a steak and a 
tankard? You shall treat me now ; and I will treat 
you again when I find you in the Park in love with 
eating, and without money to pay for a dinner." 

As I never refuse a small expense for the sake 
of a merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a 
neighbouring ale-house, and in a few moments had 
a frothing tankard and a smoking steak spread on 
the table before us. It is impossible to express how 
much the sight of such good cheer improved my 
companion's vivacity. "I like this dinner, sir," 
says he, "for three reasons: first, because I am natu- 
rally fond of beef; secondly, because I am hungry; 
and thirdly and lastly, because I get it for nothing: 
no meat eats as sweet as that for which we do not. 
pay." 

He therefore now fell to, and his appetite seem- 
ed to correspond with his inclination. After din- 
ner was over, he observed that the steak was 
tough; and yet, sir," returns he, "bad as it was, it 
seemed a rump-steak to me. O the delights of 
poverty and a good appetite ! We beggars are the 
very fondlings of nature ; the rich she treats like 
an arrant step-mother ; they are pleased with no; 
thing ; cut a steak from wiiat part you will, and it 
is insupportably tough ; dress it up with pickles, 
and even pickles can not procure you an appetite. 



488 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



But the whole creation is filled with good things 
for the beggar; Calvert's butt outtastes Cham- 
pagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels Tokay. 
Joy, joy, my blood, though our estates lie nowhere, 
we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inunda- 
tion sweeps away half the grounds of Cornwall, I 
am content; I have no lands there : if the stocks 
sink, that gives me no uneasiness ; I am no Jew." 
The fellow's vivacity, joined to his poverty, I own, 
raised my curiosity to know something of his life 
and circumstances ; and I entreated that he would 
indulge my desire. " That I will, sir," said he, 
" and welcome ; only let us drink to prevent our 
sleeping; let us have another tankard while we are 
awake ; let us have another tankard ; for, ah, how 
charming a tankard looks when full ! 

" You must know, then, that I am very well de- 
scended ! my ancestors have made some noise in 
the world ; for my mother cried oysters, and my 
father beat a drum : I am told we have even had 
some trumpeters in our family. Many a nobleman 
can not show so respectable a genealogy ; but that 
is neither here nor there ; as I was their only child, 
my father designed to breed me up to his own em- 
ployment, which was that of drummer to a pup- 
pet-show. Thus the whole employment of my 
younger years was that of interpreter to Punch and 
King Solomon in all his glory. But though my 
father was very fond of instructing me in beating 
all the marches and points of war, I made no very 
great progress, because I naturally had no ear for 
music; so, at the age of fifteen, I went and listed 
for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a drum, 
so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket 
also ; neither the one trade nor the other were to 
my taste, for I was by nature fond of being a gen- 
tleman: besides, I was obliged to obey my captain; 
he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours : 
now I very reasonably concluded, that it was much 
more comfortable for a man to obey his own will 
than another's. 

" The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me 
the spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but 
as I was tall and strong, my captain thanked me 
for my kind intention, and said, because he had a 
regard for me, we should not part. I wrote to my 
father a very dismal penitent letter, and desired 
that he would raise money to pay for my discharge ; 
but the good man was as fond of drinking as I was 
(sir, my service to you), and those who are fond 
(Of drinking never pay for other people's discharges ; 
in short, he never answered my letter. What could 
be done? If I have not money, said I to myself, 
to pay for my discharge, I must find an equivalent 
isome other way ; and that must be by running 
awiay. I deserted, and that answered my purpose 
every bit as well as if I had bought my discharge. 

" Well, I was now fairly rid of my military em- 
ployment j I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, 



and in order not to be overtaken, took the most un- 
frequented roads possible. One evening as I was 
entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I after- 
wards found to be the curate of the parish, thrown 
from his horse in a miry road, and almost smother- 
ed in the mud. He desired my assistance ; I gave 
it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He 
thanked me for my trouble, and was going off; but 
I followed him home, for I loved always to have a 
man thank me at his own door. The curate ask- 
ed a hundred questions; as whose son I was; from 
whence I came ; and whether I would be faithfull 
I answered him greatly to his satisfaction ; and 
gave myself one of the best characters in the world 
for sobriety (sir, I have the honour of drinking 
your health), discretion, and fidelity. To make a 
long story short, he wanted a servant, and hired 
me. With him I lived but two months, we did 
not much like each other : I was fond of eating, 
and he gave me but little to eat ; I loved a pretty 
girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was 
ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to 
starve me between them, I made a pious resolution 
to prevent their committing murder : I stole the 
eggs as soon as they were laid ; I emptied every un- 
finished bottle that I could lay my hands on ; what- 
ever eatable came in my way was sure to disap- 
pear: in short, they found I would not do; so I 
was discharged one morning, and paid three shil- 
lings and sixpence for two months' wages. 

"While my money was getting ready, I employ- 
ed myself in making preparations for my departure : 
two hens were hatching in an out-house; I went 
and took the eggs from habit, and not to separate 
the parents from the children, I lodged hens and 
all in my knapsack. After this piece of frugaUty, 
I returned to receive my money, and with my knap- 
sack on my back, and a staff in my hand, I bade 
adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. 
I had not gone far from the house when I heard 
behind me the cry of Stop thief! but this only in- 
creased my dispatch : it would have been foolish to 
stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at 
me. But hold, I think I passed those two months 
at the curate's without drinking. Come, the times 
are dry, and may this be my poison if ever I spent 
two more pious, stupid months in all my life. 

"Well, after travelUng some days, whom should 
I light upon but a company of strolling players. 
The moment I saw them at a distance, my heart 
warmed to them ; I had a sort of natural love for 
every thing of the vagabond order : they were em- 
ployed in settling their baggage, which had been 
overturned in a narrow way ; I offered my assist- 
ance, which they accepted ; and we soon became 
so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. 
This was a paradise to me ; they sung, danced, 
drank, eat, and travelled, all at the same time. By 
the blood of the Mirabels! I thought I had never 



ESSAYS. 



489; 



lived till then ; I grew as merry as a grig, and laugh- 
ed at every word that was spoken. They liked 
me as much as I liked them : 1 was a very good 
figure, as you see ; and, though I was poor, I was 
not modest. 

" I love a straggling life above all things in the 
world ; sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm 
to-day, and cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can 
get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it 
stands before me. We arrived that evening at 
Tenterden, and took a large room at the Grey- 
hound ; where we resolved to exhibit Romeo and 
Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave, and 
the garden scene. Romeo was to be performed by 
a gentleman from the Theatre Royal in Drury- 
lane ; Juliet, by a lady who had never appeared on 
any stage before ; and I was to snuiT the candles : 
all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, 
but the difficulty was to dress them. The same 
coat that served Romeo, turned with the blue lining 
outwards, served for his friend Mercutio : a large 
piece of crape sufficed' at once for Juliet's petticoat 
and pall : a pestle and mortar, from a neighbouring 
apothecary's, answered all the purposes of a bell; 
and our landlord's own family, wrapped in white 
sheets, served to fill up the procession. In short, 
there were but three figures among us that might 
be said to he dressed with any propriety : I mean 
the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. Our 
performance gave universal satisfaction : the whole 
audience were enchanted with our powers. 

" There is one rule by which a strolling player 
may be ever secure of success ; that is, in our theatri- 
cal way of expressing it, to make a great deal of 
the character. To speak and act as in common 
life is not playing, nor is it what people come to 
see : natural speaking, like sweet wine, runs glibly 
over the palate, and scarcely leaves any taste be- 
hind it ; but being high in a part resembles vinegar, 
which grates upon the taste, and one feels it while 
he is drinking. To please in town or country, the 
way is to cry, wring, cringe into attitudes, mark 
the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labour like one 
in the falling sickness ; that is the way to work for 
applause ; that is the way to gain it. 

" As we received much reputation for our skill 
on this first exhibition, it was but natural for me 
to ascribe part of the success to myself: I snuffed 
the candles, and let me tell you, that, without a 
candle-snuffer the piece would lose half its embel- 
lishments. In this manner we continued a fort- 
night, and drew tolerable houses, but the evening 
before our intended departure, we gave out our 
very best piece, in which all our strength was to be 
exerted. We had great expectations from this, 
and even doubled our prices, when behold one of 
the principal actors fell ill of a violent fever. This 
was a stroke like thunder to our little company : 
they were resolved to go in a body, to scold the 



man for falling sick at so inconvenient a time, and 
that too of a disorder that threatened to be expen- 
sive; I seized the moment, and offered to act the 
part myself in his stead. The case was desperate : 
they accepted my offer ; and I accordingly sat down, 
with the part in my hand and a tankard before me 
(sir, your health), and studied the character, which 
was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon 
after. 

"I found my memory excessively helped by 
drinking: I learned my part with astonishing 
rapidity, and bade adieu to snuffing candles ever 
after. I found that nature had designed me for 
more noble employments, and I was resolved to 
take her when in the humour. We got together 
in order to rehearse ; and I informed my com^ 
panions, masters now no longer, of the surprising 
change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said I, 
be under no uneasiness to get well again : I'll fill 
his place to universal satisfaction ; he may even die 
if he thinks proper ; I'll engage that he shall never 
be missed. I rehearsed before them, strutted, rant- 
ed, and received applause. They soon gave out 
that a new actor of eminence was to appear, and 
immediately all the genteel places were bespoke* 
Before I ascended the stage, however, I concluded 
within myself, that as I brought money to the 
house, 1 ought to have my share in the profits. 
Gentlemen, said I, addressing our company, I don't 
pretend to direct you ; far be it from me to treat 
you with so much ingratitude : you have published 
my name in the bills with the utmost good-nature, 
and, as affairs stand, can not act without me : so, 
gentlemen, to show you my gratitude, I expect to 
be paid for my acting as much as any of you, other- 
wise 1 declare off; I'll brandish my snuffers, and 
clip candles as usual. This was a very disagree- 
able proposal, but they found that it was impossible 
to refuse it ; it was irresistible, it was adamant : 
they consented, and I went on in king Bajazet ; my 
frowning brows bound with a stocking stuffed into 
a turban, while on my captived arms I brandished 
a jack-chain. Nature seemed to have fitted me for 
the part ; I was tall, and had a loud voice ; my very 
entrance excited universal applause ; I looked 
round on the audience with a smile, and made a 
most low and graceful bow, for that is the rule 
among us. As it was a very passionate part, I in- 
vigorated my spirits with three full glasses (the 
tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia ! it is 
almost inconceivable how I went through it; 
Tamerlane was but a fool to me ; though he was 
sometimes loud enough too, yet I was still louder 
than he : but then, besides, I had attitudes in 
abundance ; in general I kept my arms folded up 
thus, upon the pit of my stomach ; it is the way at 
Drury-lane, and has always a fine effect. The 
tankard would sink to the bottom before I could 
get through the whole of my merits : in sliorli I 



490 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



came off like a prodigy; and such was my success, 
that I could ravish the laurels even from a sirloin 
of beef. The principal gentlemen and ladies of the 
town came to me, after the play was over, to com 
pliment me upon my success; one praised my voice, 
another my person: upon my word, says the 
'squire's lady, he will make one of the finest actors 
in Europe; I say it, and I think I am something 
of a judge. — Praise in the beginning is agreeable 
enough, and we receive it as a favour ; but when 
it comes in great quantities, we regard it only as a 
debt, which nothiJig but our merit could extort 
instead of thanking them, I internally applauded 
myself. We were desired to give our piece a 
second time; we obeyed; and I was applauded even 
more than before. 

"At last we left the town, in order to be at a 
horse-race at some distance from thence. I shall 
never think of Tenterden without tears of grati- 
tude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen 
there, take my word for it, are very good judges of 
plays and actors. Come, let us drink their healths, 
if you please, sir. We quitted the town, I say ; 
and there was a wide difference between my com- 
ing in and going out : I entered the town a candle- 
snuffer, and I quitted it a hero ! — Such is the world; 
little to-day, and great to-morrow. I could say a 
great deal more upon that subject, something truly 
sublime, upon the ups and downs of fortune ; but 
it would give us both the spleen, and so I shall pass 
it over. 

" The races were ended before we arrived at the 
next town, which was no small disappointment to 
our company ; however, we were resolved to take 
all we could get. I played capital characters there 
too, and came off with my usual brilliancy. I 
sincerely believe I should have been the first actor 
in Europe, had my growing merit been properly 
cultivated; but there came an unkindly frost 
which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me once 
more down to the common standard of humanity. 
I played Sir Harry Wildair ; all the country ladies 
were charmed : if I but drew out my snuff-box, 
the whole house was in a roar of rapture ; when I 
exercised my cudgel, I thought they would have 
fallen into convulsions. 

" There was here a lady who had received an 
education of nine months in London, and this 
gave her pretensions to taste, which rendered her 
the indisputable mistress of the ceremonies where- 
ever she came. She was informed of my merits ; 
every body praised me, yet she refused at first 
going to see me perform : she could not conceive, 
she said, any thing but stuff from a stroller ; talked 
something in praise of Garrick, and amazed the 
ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, and 
cadences; she was at last, however, prevailed upon 
to go ; and it was privately intimated to me what 
a judge was to be present at my next exhibition. 



However, no way intimidated, I came on in Sir 
Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the 
other in my bosom, as usual at Drury-lane ; but 
instead of looking at me, I perceived the whole 
audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who 
had been nine months in London : from her they 
expected the decision which was to secure the ge- 
neral's truncheon in my hand, or sink me down 
into a theatrical letter-carrier. I opened my snuff- 
box, and took snuff; the lady was solemn, and so 
were the rest ; I broke my cudgel on Alderman 
Smuggler's back ; still gloomy, melancholy all, the 
lady groaned and shrugged her shoulders : I at- 
tempted, by laughing myselfj to excite at least a 
smile ; but the devil a cheek could I perceive 
wrinkled into sympathy ; I found it would not do. 
All my good humour now became forced; my 
laughter was converted into hysteric grinning; and, 
while I pretended spirits, my eye showed the agony 
of my heart : in short, the lady came with an in- 
tention to be displeased, and displeased she was ; 
my fame expired ; I am here, and: — (the tanliard 
is no more !)" 



ESSAY VII. 

When Catharina Alexowna, was made em- 
press of Russia, the women were in an actual state 
of bondage ; but she undertook to introduce mixed 
assemblies, as in other parts of Europe ; she alter- 
ed the women's dress by substituting the fashions 
of England; instead of furs, she brought in the 
use of taffeta and damask ; and cornets and com- 
modes instead of caps of sable. The women now 
found themselves no longer shut up in separate 
apartments, but saw company, visited each other, 
and were present at every entertainment. 

But as the laws to this effect were directed to a 
savage people, it is amusing enough to see the 
manner in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies 
were quite unknown ainong them; the czarina 
was satisfied with introducing them, for she found 
it impossible to render them pohte. An ordinance 
was therefore published according to their notions 
of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has 
never before been printed that we know of, we 
shall give our readers. 

" I. The person at whose house the assembly is 
to be kept, shall signify the same by hanging out 
a bill, or by giving some other public notice, by 
way of advertisement, to persons of both sexes. 

' II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than 
four or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue 
longer than ten at night. 

"III. The master of the house shall not be 
obliged to meet his guests, or conduct them out, or 
keep them company; but, though he is exempt 



ESSAYS. 



4911 



from all this, he is to find them chairs, candles, 
liquors, and all other necessaries that company 
may ask for : he is Ukewise to provide them with 
cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming. 

" IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming 
or going away ; it is enough for a person to appear 
in the assembly. 

" V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game, 
as he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hin- 
der him, or take exceptions at what he does, upon 
pain of emptying the great eagle (a pint bowl full 
of brandy) ; it shall likewise be sufficient, at en- 
tering or retiring, to salute the company. 

' ' VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, supe- 
rior officers, merchants and tradesmen of note, 
head workmen (especially carpenters), and persons 
employed in chancery, are to have liberty to enter 
the assemblies ; as likewise theirwives and children. 

" VII. A particular place shall be assigned the 
footmen, except those of the house, that there may 
be room enough in the apartments designed for the 
assembly. 

" VIII. No ladies are to get drunk under any 
pretence whatsoever ; nor shall gentlemen be 
drunk before nine. 

IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions 
and commands, etc. shall not be riotous : no gen- 
tleman shall attempt to force a kiss, and no person 
shall offer to strike a woman in the assembly, 
under pain of future exclusion." 

Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which 
in their very appearance carry an air of ridicule 
and satire. But politeness must enter every coun- 
try by degrees ; and these rules resemble the breed- 
ing of a clown, awkward but sincere. 



ESSAY VIII. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE ORDINARY OP 

NEWGATE. 

Man is a most frail being, incapable of direct- 
ing his steps, unacquainted with what is to happen 
in this life ; and perhaps no man is a more mani- 
fest instance of the truth of this maxim, than Mr. 
The. Gibber, just now gone out of the world. 
Such a variety of turns of fortune, yet such a per- 
severing uniformity of conduct, appears in all that 
happened in his short span, that the whole may be 
looked upon as one regular confusion : every action 
of his life was matter of wonder and surprise, and 
his death was an astonishment. 

This gentleman was born of creditable parents, 
who gave him a very good education, and a great 
deal of good learning, so that he could read and 
write before he was sixteen. However, he early 
discovered an inclination to follow lewd courses ; 



he refused to take the advice of his parents, and 
pursued the bent of his inclination ; he played a^ 
cards on Sundays ; called himself a gentleman ; 
fell out with his mother and laundress ; and even 
in these early days his father was frequently hear4 
to observe, that young The. — would be hanged. 

As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of 
pleasure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though 
he begged the guinea that bought it ; and was 
once known to give three pounds for a plate of 
green peas, which he had collected over-night as 
charity for a friend in distress : he ran into debt 
with every body that would trust him, and none 
could build a sconce better than he ; so that at last 
his creditors swore with one accord that The. — 
would be hanged. 

But as getting into debt by a man who had no 
visible means but impudence for subsistence, is a 
thing that every reader is not acquainted with, I 
must explain that point a little, and that to his 
satisfaction. 

There are three ways of getting into debt ; first, 
by pushing a face ; as thus : "You, Mr. Lutestring, 
send me home six yards of that paduasoy, damme; 
— but, harkee, don't think I ever intend to pay you 
for it, damme." At this the mercer laughs heart- 
ily, cuts off the paduasoy, and sends it home; 
nor is he, till too late, surprised to find the gen- 
tleman had said nothing but truth, and kept his 
word. 

The second method of running into debt is called 
fineering ; which is getting goods made up in such 
a fashion as to be unfit for every other purchaser ; 
and if the tradesman refuses to give themcredit, 
then threaten to leave them upon his hands. 

But the third and best method is called, " Being 
the good customer." The gentleman first buys 
some trifle, and pays for it in ready money ; he 
comes a few days after with nothing about him 
but bank bills, and buys, we will suppose, a six- 
penny tweezer-case ; the bills are too great to be 
changed, so he promises to return punctually the 
day after and ^ay for what he has bought. In this 
promise he is punctual, and this is repeated for 
eight or ten times, till his face is well known, and 
he has got at last the character of a good cus- 
tomer : by tliis means he gets credit for something 
considerable, and then never pays for it. 

In all this, the young man who is the unhappy 
subject of our present reflections was very expert ; 
and could face, fineer, and bring custom to a shop 
with any man in England : none of his compan- 
ions could exceed him in this ; and his very com- 
panions at last said, that The. — would be hanged. 

As he grew old he grew never the better : he 
loved ortolans and green peas as before ; he drank 
gravy-soup when hecould get it, and always thought 
his oysters tasted best when he got them for no- 
thing, or which was just the same, when he bought 



492 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



them upon tick ; thus the old man kept up the 
vices of the youth, and what he wanted in power 
he made up by inclination ; so that all the world 
thought, that old The.— would be hanged. 

And now, reader, I have brought him to his last 
scene; a scene where, perhaps, my duty should 
have obliged me to assist. You expect, perhaps, 
his dying words, and the tender farewell he took 
of his wife and children ; you expect an account 
of his coffin and white gloves, his pious ejacula- 
tions, and the papers he left behind him. In this 
I can not indulge your curiosity ; for, oh ! the mys- 
teries of Fate, The. — was drowned ! 

" Reader," as Hervey saith, " pause and pon- 
der ; and ponder and pause ; who knows what thy 
own end may be !" 



ESSAY IX. 

I TAKE the liberty to communicate to the public 
a few loose thoughts upon a subject, which, though 
often handled, has not yet in my opinion been fully 
discussed : I mean national concord, or unanimity, 
which in this kingdom has been generally consider- 
ed as a bare possibility, that existed no where but 
in speculation. Such a union is perhaps neither 
to be expected nor wished for in a country, whose 
liberty depends rather upon the genius of the peo- 
ple, than upon any precautions which they have 
taken in a constitutional way for the guard and 
preservation of this inestimable blessing. 

There is a very honest gentleman with whom I 
have been acquainted these thirty years, during 
which there has not been one speech uttered 
against the ministry in parliament, nor struggle at 
an election for a burgess to serve in the House of 
Commons, nor a pamphlet pubUshed in opposition 
to any measure of the administration, nor even a 
private censure passed in his hearing upon the 
misconduct of any person concerned in public af- 
fairs, but he is immediately alarmed, and loudly 
exclaims against such factious doings, in order to 
set the people by the ears together at such a deli- 
cate juncture. " At any other time (says he) such 
opposition might not be improper, and I don't 
question the facts that are alleged ; but at this crisis, 
sir, to inflame the nation! — the man deserves to be 
punished as a traitor to his country." In a word, 
according to this gentleman's opinion, the nation 
has been in a violent crisis at any time these thirty 
years ; and were it possible for him to live another 
century, he would never find any period, at which 
a man might with safety impugn the infallibility of 
a minister. 

The case is no more than this : my honest friend 
has invested his whole fortune in the stocks, on 
Government security, and trembles at every whiff 
of popular discontent. Were every British sub- 



ject of the same tame and timid disposition. Mag- 
na Charta (to use the coarse phrase of OUver 
Cromwell) would be no more regarded by an am- 
bitious prince than Magna F — ta, and the liber- 
ties of England expire without a groan. Opposi- 
tion, when restrained within due bounds, is the 
salubrious gale that ventilates the opinions of the 
people, which might otherwise stagnate into the 
most abject submission. It may be said to purify 
the atmosphere of politics ; to dispel the gross va- 
pours raised by the influence of ministerial artifice 
and corruption, until the constitution, Uke a mighty 
rock, stands full disclosed to the view of every in- 
dividual who dwells within the shade of its protec- 
tion. Even when this gale blows with augmented 
violence, it generally tends to the advantage of the 
commonwealth ; it awakes the apprehension, and 
consequently arouses all the faculties of the pilot 
at the helm, who redoubles his vigilance and cau- 
tion, exerts his utmost sluU, and, becoming ac- 
quainted with the nature of the navigation, in a 
little time learns to suit his canvass to the rough- 
ness of the sea and the trim of the vessel. With- 
out these intervening storms of opposition to exer- 
cise his faculties, he would become enervate, negli- 
gent, and presumptuous ; and in the wantonness 
of his power, trusting to some deceitful calm, per- 
haps hazard a step that would wreck the constitu- 
tion. Yet there is a measure in all things. A 
moderate frost will fertilize the glebe with nitrous 
particles, and destroy the eggs of pernicious insects 
that prey upon the infancy of the j'ear; but if this 
frost increases in severity and duration, it will chill 
the seeds, and even freeze up the roots of vegeta- 
bles ; it will check the bloom, nip the buds, and 
blast all the promise of the spring. The vernal 
breeze that drives the fogs before it, that brushes 
the cobwebs from the boughs, that fans the air and 
fosters vegetation, if augmented to a tempest, will 
strip the leaves, overthrow the tree, and desolate 
the garden. The auspicious gale before which the 
trim vessel ploughs the bosom of the sea, while the 
mariners are kept alert in duty and in spirits, if 
converted to a hurricane, overwhelms the crew 
with terror and confusion. The sails are rent, the 
cordage cracked, the masts give way ; the master 
eyes the havock with mute despair, and the vessel 
founders in the storm. Opposition, when confined 
within its proper channels, sweeps away those 
beds of soil and banks of sand which corruptive 
power had gathered; but when it overflows its 
banks, and deluges the plain, its course is marked 
by ruin and devastation. 

The opposition necessary in a free state, like 
that of Great Britain, is not at all incompatible 
with that national concord which ought to unite 
the people on all emergencies, in which the general 
safety is at stake. It is the jealousy of patriotism, 
not the rancour of party ; the warmth of candour, 



ESSAYS. 



493 



not the virulence of hate ; a transient dispute among 
firieuds, not an implacable feud that admits of no 
reconciliation. The history of all ages teems with 
the fatal effects of internal discord ; and were his- 
tory and tradition annihilated, common sense would 
plainly point out the mischiefs that must arise 
from want of harmony and national union. Every 
school-boy can have recourse to the fable of the 
rods, which, when united in a bundle, no strength 
could bend ; but when separated into single twigs, 
a child could break with ease. 



ESSAY X. 

I HAVE spent the greater part of my life in mak- 
ing observations on men and things, and in pro- 
jecting schemes for the advantage of my country ; 
and though my labours met with an ungrateful re- 
turn, I will still persist in my endeavours for its 
service, Uke that venerable, unshaken, and neglect- 
ed patriot, Mr. Jacob Henriquez, who, though of 
the Hebrew nation, hath exhibited a shining ex- 
ample of Christian fortitude and perseverance.* 
And here my conscience urges me to confess, that 
the hint upon which the following proposals are 
built, was taken from an advertisement of the said 
patriot Henriquez, in which he gave the public to 
understand, that Heaven had indulged him with 
" seven blessed daughters." Blessed they are, no 
doubt, on account of their own and their father's 
virtues ; but more blessed may they be, if the scheme 
I offer should be adopted by the legislature. 

The proportion which the number of females 
born in these kingdoms bears to the male children, 
is, I think, supposed to be as thirteen to fourteen ; 
but as women are not so subject as the other sex 
to accidents and intemperance, in numbering 
adults we shall find the balance on the female side. 
If, in calculating the numbers of the people, we 
take in the multitudes that emigrate to the planta- 
tions, whence they never return ; those that die at 
sea, and make their exit at Tyburn ; together with 
the consumption of the present war, by sea and 
^and, in the Atlantic, Mediterranean, in the Ger- 
man and Indian Oceans, in Old France, New 
France, North America, the Leeward Islands, 
Germany, Africa, and Asia, we may fairly state 
the loss of men during the war at one hundred 
thousand. If this be the case, there must be a su- 
perplus of the other sex, amounting to the same 
number, and this superplus will consist of women 
able to bear arms ; as I take for granted, that all 
those who are fit to bear children are Ukewise 



* A man well known at thisperiod (1762), as well as during 
many preceding years, for the numerous schemes he was 
daily offering to various ministers for the purpose of raising 
money by loans, paying off the national encumbrances, etc. 
etc. none of which, however, were ever known to have re- 
ceived the smallest notice. 



fit to bear arms. Now, as we have seen the na- 
tion governed by old women, I hope to make it ap- 
pear that it may be defended by young women ; 
and surely this scheme will not be rejected as un- 
necessary at such a juncture,* when our armies, 
in the four quarters of the globe, are in want of 
recruits ; when we find ourselves entangled in a 
new war with Spain, on the eve of a rupture in 
Italy, and indeed in a fair way of being obliged to 
make head against all the great potentates of Eu- 
rope. 

But, before I unfold my design, it may be ne- 
cessary to obviate, from experience as well as ar- 
gument, the objections Avhich may be made to the 
delicate frame and tender disposition of the female 
sex, rendering them incapable of the toils, and in- 
superably averse to the horrors of war. All the 
world has heard of the nation of Amazons, wha 
inhabited the banks of the river Thermodon in 
Cappadocia ; who expelled their men by force of 
arms, defended themselves by their own prowess, 
managed the reigns of government, prosecuted the 
operations in war, and held the other sex in the ut- 
most contempt. We are informed by Homer, that 
Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, acted as aux- 
iliary to Priam, and fell, valiantly fighting in his 
cause, before the walls of Troy. GLuintius Curtiua 
tells us, that Thalestris brought one hundred armed 
Amazons in a present to Alexander the Great. 
Diodorus Siculus expressly says, there was a na- 
tion of female warriors in Africa, who fought 
against the Libyan Hercules. We read in the 
voyages of Columbus, that one of the Caribbee 
Islands was possessed by a tribe of female warriorsr, 
who kept all the neighbouring Indians in awe ; 
but we need not go farther than our own age and 
country to prove, that the spirit and constitution 
of the fair sex are equal to the dangers and fatigues 
of war. Every novice who has read the authentie 
and important History of the Pirates, is well ac- 
quainted with the exploits of two heroines, called 
Mary Read and Anne Bonny. I myself have had 
the honour to drink with Anne Gassier, alias mo- 
ther Wade, who had distinguished herself among 
the Buccaneers of America, and in her old age 
kept a punch-house in Port-Royal of Jamaica. I 
have likewise conversed with Moll Davis, who had 
served as a dragoon in all queen Anne's wars, and 
was admitted on the pension of Chelsea. The lato 
war with Spain, and even the present, hath pro- 
duced instances of females enlisting both in the land 
and sea service, and behaving with remarkable 
bravery in the disguise of the other sex. And who 
has not heard of the celebrated Jenny Cameron, 
and some other enterprising ladies of North Britain, 
who attended a certain Adventurer in all his ex • 
peditions, and headed their respective clans in ta 



* In the year 1762, 



494 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



military character 1 That strength of body is often 
equal to the courage of mind implanted in the fair 
sex, will not be denied by those who have seen the 
water-women of Plymouth; the female drudges 
! of Ireland, Wales, and Scotland , the fish-women 
I of Billingsgate; the weeders, podders, and hoppers, 
i who swarm in the fields ; and the hunters who 
Iswagger in the streets of London : not to mention 
the indefatigable trulls who follow the camp, and 
keep up with the hne of march, though loaded with 
jbantUngs and other baggage. 

There is scarcely a street in this metropolis 
without one or more viragos, who discipline their 
husbands and domineer over the whole neighbour- 
liood. Many months are not elapsed since I was 
witness to a pitched battle between two athletic fe- 
males, who fought with equal skill and fury until 
one of them gave out, after having sustained seven 
falls on the hard stones. They were both stripped 
tio the under petticoat ; their breasts were carefully 
dwathed with handkerchiefs ; and as no vestiges of 
features were to be seen in either when I came up, 
1 imagined the combatants were of the other sex, 
until a bystander assured me of the contrary, giv- 
ing me to understand, that the conqueror had lain- 
in about five weeks of twin-bastards, begot by her 
£ econd, who was an Irish chairman. When I see 
the avenues of the Strand beset every night with 
troops of fierce Amazons, who, with dreadful im- 
])recations, stop, and beat and plunder passengers, 
] can not help wishing that such martial talents 
^veTe converted to the benefit of the public ; and 
that those who are so loaded with temporal fire, 
^nd so little afraid of eternal fire, should, instead 
(^ ruining the souls and bodies of their fellow-citi- 
?fens, be put in a way of turning their destructive 
(jualities against the enemies of the nation. 

Having thus demonstrated that the fair sex are 
not deficient in strength and resolution, I would 
humbly propose, that as there is an excess on their 
sjde in quantity to the amount of one hundred 
tljiousand, part of that number may be employed 
in recruiting the army as well as in raising thirty 
new Amazonian regiments, to be commanded by 
females, and serve in regimentals adapted to their 
sdx. The Amazons of old appeared with the left 
breast bare, an open jacket, and trowsers that de- 
scended no farther than the knee ; the right breast 
was destroyed, that it might not impede them in 
bending the bow, or darting the javelin : but there 
is no occasion for this cruel excision in the present 
discipline, as we have seen instances of women 
who handle the musket, without finding any in- 
iuonvenience from that protuberance. 

As the sex love gaiety, they may be clothed in 
vests of pink satin and open drawers of the same, 
with buskins on their feet and legs, their hair tied 
behind and floating on their shoulders, and their 
hats adorned with white feathers : they may be 



armed with light carbines and long bayonets, with- 
out the encumbrance of swords or shoulder-belts. 
I make no doubt but many young ladies of figure 
and fashion will undertake to raise companies at 
their own expense, provided they like their colo- 
nels; but I must insist upon it, if this scheme 
should be embraced, that Mr. Henriquez's seven 
blessed daughters may be provided with commis- 
sions, as the project is in some measure owing to 
the hints of that venerable patriot. I moreover 
give it as my opinion, that Mrs. Kitty Fisher* 
shall have the command of a battalion, and the 
nomination of her own officers, provided she will 
warrant them all sound, and be content to wear 
proper badges of distinction. 

A female brigade, properly disciplined and ac- 
coutred, would not, I am persuaded, be afraid to 
charge a numerous body of the enemy, over whom 
they would have a manifest advantage ; for if the 
barbarous Scythians were ashamed to fight with 
the Amazons who invaded them, surely the French, 
who pique themselves on their sensibility and de- 
votion to the fair sex, would not act upon the of- 
fensive against a baud of female warriors, arrayed 
in all the charms of youth and beauty. 



ESSAY XL 

As I am one of that sauntering tribe of mortals, 
who spend the greatest part of their time in taverns, 
coffee-houses, and other places of public resort, I 
have thereby an opportunity of observing an in- 
finite variety of characters, which, to a person of a 
contemplative turn, is a much higher entertain- 
ment than a view of all the curiosities of art or na- 
ture. In one of these my late rambles, I accident- 
ally fell into the company of half a dozen gentle- 
men, who were engaged in a warm dispute about 
some political affair ; the decision of which, as they 
were equally divided in their sentiments, they 
thought proper to refer to me, which naturally drew 
me in for a share of the conversation. 

Amongst a multiplicity of other topics, we took 
occasion to talk of the different characters of the 
several nations of Europe ; when one of the gentle- 
men, cocking his hat, and assuming such an air of 
importance as if he had possessed all the merit of 
the English nation in his own person, declared, that 
the Dutch were a parcel of avaricious wretches ; 
the French a set of flattering sycophants ; that the 
Germans were drunken sots, and beastly gluttons j 
and the Spaniards proud, haughty, and surly 
tyrants ; but that in bravery, generosity, clemency, 
and in every other virtue, the English excelled all 
the rest of the world. 

This very learned and judicious remark was 



* A celebrated courtezan of that time. 



ESSAYS. 



495 



received with a general smile of approbation by all 
the company — all, I mean, but your humble ser- 
vant ; who, endeavouring to keep my gravity as 
well as I could, and reclining my head upon my 
arm, continued for some time in a posture of affect- 
ed thoughtfulness, as if I had been musing on 
something else, and did not seem to attend to the 
subject of conversation ; hoping by these means to 
avoid thedisagreeable necessity of explaining my- 
self, and thereby depriving the gentleman of his 
imaginary happiness. 

But my pseudo-patriot had no mind to let me 
escape so easily. Not satisfied that his opinion 
should pass without contradiction, he was deter- 
mined to have it ratified by the suffrage of every 
one in the company ; for which purpose, addressing 
himself to me with an air of inexpressible confi- 
dence, he asked me if I was not of the same way 
of thinking. As I am never forward in giving my 
opinion, especially when I have reason to believe 
that it will not be agreeable ; so, when I am obliged 
to give it, I always hold it for a maxim to speak 
my real sentiments. I therefore told him, that, for 
my own part, I should not have ventured to talk 
in such a peremptory strain, unless I had made the 
tour of Europe, and examined the manners of these 
several nations with great care and accuracy ; that 
perhaps a more impartial judge would not scruple 
to affirm, that the Dutch were more frugal and in- 
dustrious, the French more temperate and polite, 
the Germans more hardy and patient of labour and 
fatigue, and the Spaniards more staid and sedate, 
than the EngUsh ; who, though undoubtedly brave 
and generous, vfere at the same time rash, head- 
strong, and impetuous; too apt to be elated with 
prosperity, and to despond in adversity. 

I could easily perceive, that all the company be- 
gan to regard me with a jealous eye before I had 
finished my answer, which I had no sooner done, 
than the patriotic gentleman observed, with a con- 
temptuous sneer, that he was greatly surprised how 
some people could have the conscience to live in a 
country which they did not love, and to enjoy the 
protection of a government, to which in their 
hearts they were inveterate enemies. Finding that 
by this modest declaration of my sentiments I l^ad 
forfeited the good opinion of my companions, and 
given them occasion to call my political principles 
in question, and well knowing that it was in vain 
to argue with men who were so very full of them- 
selves, I threw down my reckoning, and retired 
to my own lodgings, reflecting on the absurd and 
ridiculous nature of national prejudice and prepos- 
session. 

Among all the famous sayings of antiquity, 
there is none that does greater honour to the author, 
or affords greater pleasure to the reader (at least if 
he be a person of a generous and benevolent heart), 
than that of the pliilosopher, who, being asked 



what "countryman he was," replied, that he was 
"a citizen of the world." How few are there to 
be found in modern times who can say the same, 
or whose conduct is consistent with such a pro- 
fession ! We are now become so much English- 
men, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, or Ger- 
mans, that we are no longer citizens of the world ; 
so much the natives of one particular spot, or 
members of one petty society, that we no longer 
consider ourselves as the general inhabitants of the 
globe, or members of that grand society which com- 
prehends the whole human kind. 

Did these prejudices prevail only among the 
meanest and lowest of the people, perhaps they 
might be excused, as they have few, if any, oppor- 
tunities of correcting them by reading, travelling, 
or conversing with foreigners ; but the misfortune 
is, that they infect the minds, and influence the 
conduct, even of our gentlemen ; of those, I mean, 
who have every title to this appellation but an ex- 
emption from prejudice, which, however, in my 
opinion, ought to be regarded as the characteristi- 
cal mark of a gentleman; for let a man's birth be 
ever so high, his station ever so exalted, or his for- 
tune ever so large, yet if he is not free from nation- 
al and other prejudices, I should make bold to tell 
him, that he had a low and vulgar mind, and had 
no just claim to the character of a gentleman. 
And, in fact, you will always find that those are 
most apt to boast of national merit, who have little 
or no merit of their own to depend on ; than which, 
to be sure, nothing is more natural : the slender 
vine twists around the sturdy oak, for no other 
reason in the world but because it has not strength 
sufficient to support itself. 

Should it be alleged in defence of national pre- 
judice, that it is the natural and necessary growth 
of love to our country, and that therefore the form- 
er can not be destroyed without hurting the latter, 
I answer, that this is a gross fallacy and delusion. 
That it is the growth of love to our country, I will 
allow; but that it is the natural and necessary 
growth of it, I absolutely deny. Superstition and 
enthusiasm too are the growth of religion ; but who 
ever took it in his head to affirm, that they are the 
necessary growth of this noble principle? They 
are, if you will, the bastard sprouts of this heavenly 
plant, but not its natural and genuine branches, 
and may safely enough be lopped off, without do- 
in cr any harm to the parent stock : nay, perhaps, 
till once they are lopped off, this goodly tree can 
never flourish in perfect health and vigour. 

Is it not very possible that I may love my own 
country, without hating the natives of other coun- 
tries! that I may exert the most heroic bravery, the 
most undaunted resolution, in defending its laws 
and liberty, without despising all the rest of the 
world as cowards and poltroons? Most certainly 
it is ; and if it were not — But why need 1 suppose 



496 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



what is absolutely impossible? — But if it were notj 
I must own, I should prefer the title of the ancient 
philosopher, viz. a citizen of the world, to that of 
an Enghshman, a Frenchman, a European, or to 
any other appellation whatever. 



ESSAY XII. 

Amidst the frivolous pursuits and pernicious 
dissipations of the present age, a respect for the 
quaUties of the understanding still prevails to such 
a degree, that almost every individual pretends to 
have a taste for the Belles Lettres. The spruce 
'prentice sets up for a critic, and the puny beau 
piques himself upon being a connoisseur. With- 
out assigning causes for this universal presumption, 
we shall proceed to observe, that if it was attended 
with no other inconvenience than that of exposing 
the pretender to the ridicule of those few who can 
sift his pretensions, it might be unnecessary to un- 
deceive the public, or to endeavour at the reforma- 
tion of innocent folly, productive of no evil to the 
commonwealth. But in reality this folly is pro- 
ductive of manifold evils to the community. If the 
reputation of taste can be acquired, without the 
least assistance of literature, by reading modern 
poems, and seeing modern plays, what person will 
deny himself the pleasure of such an easy qualifi- 
cation? Hence the youth of both sexes are de- 
bauched to diversion, and seduced from much more 
profitable occupations into idle endeavours after 
literary fame ; and a superficial false taste, founded 
on ignorance and conceit, takes possession of the 
public. The acquisition of learning, the study of 
nature, is neglected as superfluous labour ; and the 
best faculties of the mind remain unexercised, and 
indeed unopened, by the power of thought and re- 
flection. False taste will not only diffuse itself 
through all our amusements, but even influence 
our moral and political conduct ; for what is false 
taste, but want of perception to discern propriety 
and distinguish beauty? 

It has been often alleged, that taste is a natural 
talent, as independent of art as strong eyes, or a 
delicate sense of smeUing ; and, without all doubt, 
the principal ingredient in the composition of taste 
is a natural sensibility, without which it can not 
exist ; but it differs from the senses in this particu- 
lar, that they are finished by nature, whereas taste 
can not be brought to perfection without proper 
cultivation ; for taste pretends to judge not only of 
nature but also of art ; and that judgment is found- 
ed upon observation and comparison. 

What Horace has said of genius is still more 
applicable to taste. 

Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Q,U!Bsituin est. Ego nee etudium sine divite vena, 



Nee rude quid possit video ingeniura : alterius sic 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 

Hor. Ars. Poet. 

'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim 
Prom art or nature their best right to fame; 
But art if not enrich'd by nature's vein, 
And a rude genius of uncultured strain, 
Are useless both ; but when in friendship join'd, 
A mutual succour in each other find. 

Francis. 

We have seen genius shine without the help of 
wrt, but taste must be cultivated by art, before it 
will produce agreeable fruit. This, however, wa 
must still inculcate with duintilian, that study, 
precept, and observation, will nought avail, without 
the assistance of nature : Mlud tamen i'mprimia 
testandum est, nihil prcecepta atque artes valerCf 
nisi adjuvante naiwd. 

Yet even though nature has done her part, by 
implanting the seeds of taste, great pains must be 
taken, and great skill exerted, in raising them to a 
proper pitch of vegetation. The judicious tutor 
must gradually and tenderly unfold the mental 
faculties of the youth committed to his charge. He 
must cherish his delicate perception ; store his 
mind with proper ideas ; point out the different 
channels of observation ; teach him to compare ob- 
jects, to establish the limits of right and wrong, of 
truth and falsehood ; to distinguish beauty from 
tinsel, and grace from affectation ; in a word, to 
strengthen and improve by culture, experience, and 
instruction, those natural powers of feeling and sa- 
gacity which constitute the faculty called taste, and 
enable the professor to enjoy the delights of the 
Belles Lettres. 

We can not agree in opinion with those who 
imagine, that nature has been equally favourable 
to all men, in conferring upon them a fundamental 
capacity, which may be improved to all the refine- 
ment of taste and criticism. Every day's experience 
convinces us of the contrary. Of two youths edu- 
cated under the same preceptor, instructed with 
the same care, and cultivated with the same as- 
siduity, one shall not only comprehend, but even 
anticipate the lessons of his master, by dint of na- 
tural discernment, while the other toils in vain to 
imbibe the least tincture of instruction. Such in- 
deed is the distinction between genius and stu 
pidity, which every man has an opportunity of see- 
ing among his friends and acquaintance. Not that 
we ought too hastily to decide upon the natural ca- 
pacities of children, before we have maturely con^ 
sidered the peculiarity of disposition, and the bias 
by which genius may be strangely warped from 
the common path of education. A youth incapa- 
ble of retaining one rule of grammar, or of acquiring 
the least knowledge of the classics, may neverthe- 
less make great progress in mathematics ; nay, he 
may have a strong genius for the niathematic$ 



ESSAYS. 



497 



without being able to comprehend a demon- 
etration of Euclid ; because his mind conceives in 
a peculiar manner, and is so intent upon contem- 
plating the object in one particular point of view, 
that it can not perceive it in any other. We have 
known an instance of a boy, who, while his mas- 
ter complained that he had not capacity to com- 
prehend the properties of a right-angled triangle, 
had actually, in private, by the power of his ge- 
nius, formed a mathematical system of his own, 
discovered a series of curious theorems, and even 
applied his deductions to practical machines of 
surprising construction. Besides, in the education 
of youth, we ought to remember, that some capa- 
cities are like the pyra prcecocia ; they soon blow, 
and soon attain to all that degree of maturity 
which they are capable of acquiring ; while, on 
the other hand, there are geniuses of slow growth, 
that are late in bursting the bud, and long in ri- 
pening. Yet the first shall yield a faint blossom 
and insipid fruit; whereas the produce of the 
other shall be distinguished and admired for its 
well-concocted juice and excellent flavour. We 
have known a boy of five years of age sur- 
prise every body by playing on the violin in such 
a manner as seemed to promise a prodigy in mu- 
sic. He had all the assistance that art could 
afford ; by the age of ten his genius was at the 
acme : yet, after that period, notwithstanding the 
most intense application, he never gave the least 
signs of improvement. At six he was admired as 
a miracle of music : at six-and-twenty he was 
neglected as an ordinary fiddler. The celebrated 
Dean Swift was a remarkable instance in the other 
extreme. He was long considered as an incor- 
rigible dunce, and did not obtain his degree at the 
University but ex speciali gratia ; j'et, when his 
pov/ers began to unfold, he signalized himself by 
a very remarkable superiority of genius. When 
a youth, therefore, appears dull of apprehension, 
and seems to derive no advantage from study and 
instruction, the tutor must exercise his sagacity in 
discovering whether the soil be absolutely barren, 
or sown with seed repugnant to its nature, or of 
such a quality as requires repeated culture and 
length of time to set its juices in fermentation. 
These observations, however, relate to capacity in 
general, which we ought carefully to distinguish 
from taste. Capacity implies the power of retain- 
ing what is received ; taste is the power of relish- 
ing or rejecting whatever is offered for the enter- 
tainment of the imagination. A man may have 
capacity to acquire what is called learning and 
philosophy ; but he must have also sensibility, be- 
fore he feels those emotions with which taste re- 
ceives the impressions of beauty. 

Natural taste is apt to be seduced and debauched 
by vicious precept and bad example. There is a 
dangerous tinsel in false taste, by which the un- 
32 



wary mind and young imagination are often fasci- 
nated. Nothing has been so often explained, and 
yet so little understood, as simplicity in writing. 
Simplicity in this acceptation has a larger signifi- 
cation than either the aTrxdov of the Greeks, or the 
simplex of the Latins ; for it implies beauty. It 
is the aTTKoov Kill tiJ'vv of Demetrius Phalereus, the 
simplex Tnunditiis of Horace, and expressed by 
one word, naivete, in the French language. It is, 
in fact, no other than beautiful nature, without af- 
fectation or extraneous ornament. In statuary, it 
is the Venus of Medicis ; in architecture, the Pan- 
theon. It would be an endless task to enumerate 
all the instances of this natural simplicity that oc- 
cur in poetry and painting, among the ancients 
and moderns. We shall only mention two exam- 
ples of it, the beauty of which consists in the pa- 
thetic. 

Anaxagoras the philosopher, and preceptor of 
Pericles, being told that both his sons were dead, 
laid his hand upon his heart, and after a short 
pause, consoled himself with a reflection couched 
in three words, mStiv bnTov? yiymmtais, "I knew 
they were mortal." The other instance we select 
from the tragedy of Macbeth. The gallant Mac- 
duff] being informed that his wife and children 
were murdered by order of the tyrant, pulls his 
hat over his eyes, and his internal agony bursts out 
into an exclamation of four words, the most ex- 
pressive perhaps that ever were uttered : " He has 
no children." This is the energetic language of 
simple nature, which is now grown into disrepute. 
By the present mode of education, we are forci- 
bly warped from the bias of nature, and all sim- 
plicity in manners is rejected. We are taught to 
disguise and distort our sentiments, until the 
faculty of thinking is diverted into an unnatural 
channel ; and we not only relinquish and forget, 
but also become incapable of our original disposi- 
tions. We are totally changed into creatures of 
art and affectation. Our perception is abused, and 
even our senses are perverted. Our minds lose 
their native force and flavour. The imagination, 
sweated by artificial fire, produces nought but vapid 
bloom. The genius, instead "of growing like a 
vigorous tree, extending its branches on every side, 
and bearing d-elicious fruit, resembles a stunted 
yew, tortured into some wretched form, projecting 
no shade, displaying no flower, diffusing no frag- 
rance, yielding no fruit, and affording nothing but 
a barren conceit for the amusement of the idle 
spectator. 

Thus debauched from nature, how can we rel- 
ish her genuine productions ? As well might a 
man distinguish objects through a prism, that pre- 
sents nothing but a variety of colours to the eye 5 
or a maid pining in the green sickness prefer a 
biscuit to a cinder. It has been often alleged, that 
the passions can never be wholly deposited; an«l 



498 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



that, by appealing to these, a good writer will al- 
ways be able to force himself into the hearts of his 
readers : but even the strongest passions are weak- 
ened, nay, sometimes totally extinguished, by mu 
tual opposition, dissipation and acquired insensi 
bility. How often at the theatre is the tear of 
sympathy and the burst of laughter repressed by 
a ridiculous species of pride, refusing approbation 
to the author and actor, and renouncing society 
with the audience! This seeming insensibility is 
not owing to any original defect. Nature has 
stretched the string, though it has long ceased to 
vibrate. It may have been displaced and distract- 
ed by the violence of pride ; it may have lost its 
tone through long disuse; or be so twisted or 
overstrained as to produce the most jarring dis- 
cords. 

If so little regard is paid to nature when she 
knocks so powerfully at the breast, she must be al- 
together neglected and despised in her calmer mood 
of serene tranquillity, when nothing appears to 
recommend her but simplicity, propriety, and in- 
nocence. A person must have delicate feehngs 
that can taste the celebrated repartee in Terence : 
Homo sum; nihil humani a me alienum puto : 
"I am a man; therefore think I have an interest 
in every thing that concerns humanity." A clear 
blue sky, spangled with stars, will prove an insipid 
object to eyes accustomed to the glare of torches 
and tapers, gilding and glitter ; eyes that will turn 
with disgust from the green mantle of the spring, 
so gorgeously adorned with buds and foliage, flow- 
ers and blossoms, to contemplate a gaudy silken 
robe, striped and intersected with unfriendly tints, 
that fritter the masses of light, and distract the vi- 
sion, pinked into the most fantastic forms, flounced, 
and furbelowed, and fringed with all the Uttleness 
of art unknown to elegance. 

Those ears that are offended by the notes of the 
thrush, the blackbird, and the nightingale, will be 
reo-aled and ravished by the squeaking fiddle touch- 
ed by a musician, who has no other genius than 
that which hes in his fingers ; they will even be 
entertained with the rattling of coaches, and the 
alarming knock, by which the doors of fashionable 
people are so loudly distinguished. The sense of 
smelhng, that delights in the scent of excrementi- 
tious animal juices, such as musk, civet, and uri- 
nous salts, will loath the fragrance of new-mown 
hay, the sweet-brier, the honey-suckle, and the 
rose. The organs that are gratified with the taste 
of sickly veal bled into a palsy, crammed fowls, 
and dropsical brawn, peas without substance, 
peaches without taste, and pine-apples without fla- 
vour, will certainly nauseate the native, genuine, 
and salutary taste of Welsh beef, Banstead mut- 
ton, and barn-door fowls, whose juices are con- 
cocted by a natural digestion, and whose flesh is 



consolidated by free air and exercise. In such a 
total perversion of the senses, the ideas must be 
misrepresented ; the powers of the imagination 
disordered ; and the judgment, of consequence, un- 
sound. The disease is attended with a false appe- 
tite, which the natural food of the mind will not 
satisfy. It will prefer Ovid to Tibullus, and the 
rant of Lee to the tenderness of Otway. The 
soul sinks into a kind of sleepy idiotism, and is di- 
verted by toys and baubles, which can only be 
pleasing to the most superficial curiosity. It is en- 
livened by a quick succession of trivial objects, that 
glisten and dance before the eye ; and, like an in- 
fant, is kept awake and inspirited by the sound of 
a rattle. It must not only be dazzled and aroused, 
but also cheated, hurried, and perplexed, by the 
artifice of deception, business, intricacy, and iia- 
trigue ; a kind of low juggle, which may be termed 
the legerdemain of genius. 

In this state of depravity the mind can not enjoy, 
nor indeed distinguish the cliarms of natural and 
moral beauty and decorum. The ingenuous blush 
of native innocence, the plain language of ancient 
faith and sincerity, the cheerful resignation to the 
will of Heaven, the mutual affection of the chari- 
ties, the voluntary respect paid to superior dignity 
or station, the virtue of beneficence, extended even 
to the brute creation, nay the very crimson glow 
of health, and swelling lines of beauty, are de- 
spised, detested, scorned, and ridiculed, as ignorance, 
rudeness, rusticity, and superstition. Thus we 
see how moral and natural beauty are connected ; 
and of what importance it is, even to the forma- 
tion of taste, that the manners should be severely 
superintended. This is a task which ought to 
take the lead of science ; for we will venture to 
say, that virtue is the foundation of taste ; or 
rather, that virtue and taste are built upon the same 
foundation of sensibility, and can not be disjoined 
without offering violence to both. But virtue must 
be informed, and taste instructed, otherwise they 
will both remain imperfect and ineflTectual : 

Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis. 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes, 
Quod sit Conscripti, quodjudicisoiliciuni, quae 
Partes in bellum missi ducis ; ille prifecto 
Reddere personae seit convenientia cuique. 

Horace. 

The critic, who with nice dLscemment knows, 
What to his country and his friends he owes ; 
How various nature warms tlie human breast, 
To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest; 
What the great functions of our judges are, 
Of senators, and generals sent to war ; 
He can distinguish, with unerring art. 
The strol^es peculiar to each different part. 

Thus we see taste is composed of nature im- 
proved by art ; of feeling tutored by instruction. 



ESSAYS. 



499 



ESSAY XIII. 

Hating explained what we conceive to be true 
taste, and in some measure accounted for the pre- 
valence of vitiated taste, we should proceed to point 
out the most effectual manner, in which a natural 
capacity may be improved into a delicacy of judg- 
ment, and an intimate acquaintance with the Bel- 
les Lettres. We shall take it for granted, that 
proper means have been used to form the manners, 
and attach the mind to virtue. The heart, culti- 
vated by precept and warmed by example, improves 
in sensibility, which is the foundation of taste. By 
distinguishing the influence and scope of morality, 
and cherishing the ideas of benevolence, it acquires 
a habit of sympathy, which tenderly feels respon- 
sive, like the vibration of unisons, every touch of 
moral beauty. Hence it is that a man of a social 
heart, entendered by the practice of virtue, is 
awakened to the most pathetic emotions by every 
uncommon instance of generosity, compassion, and 
greatness of soul. Is there any man so dead to 
sentiment, so lost to humanity, as to read unmov- 
ed the generous behaviour of the Romans to the 
states of Greece, as it is recounted by Livy, or em- 
bellished by Thomson in his poem of Liberty 1 
Speaking of Greece in the decline of her power, 
when her freedom no longer existed, he says : 

As at her Isthmian games, a fading pomp ! 
Her full assembled youth innumerous swarm'd, 
On a tribunal raised Flaminius' sat ; 
A victor he from the deep phalanx pierced 
Of iron-coated Macedon, and back 
The Grecian tyrant to his bounds repell'd : 
[nthe high thoughtless gaiety of game. 
While sport alone their unambitious hearts 
Possese'd ; the sudden trumpet sounding hoarse, 
Bade silence o'er the bright assembly reign. 
Then thus a herald — " To the states of Greece 
The Roman people, unconfined, restore 
Their countries, cities, liberties, and laws ; 
Taxes remit, and garrisons withdraw." 
The crowd, astonish'd half, and half inform'd, 
Stared dubious round, some question'd, some exclaim'd 
(Like one who, dreaming between hope and fear, 
Is lost in anxious joy) "Be that again 
— Be that again proclaim'd distinct and loud !' 
Loud and distinct it was again proclaim'd; 
And still as midnight in the rural shade, 
When the gale slumbers, they the words devour'd. 
Awhile severe amazement held them mute, 
Then bursting broad, the boundless shout to heaven 
From many a thousand hearts ecstatic sprung ! 
On every hand rebellowed to them joy ; 
The swelling sea, the rocks and vocad hills- 
Like Bacchanals they flew. 
Each other straining in a strict embrace. 
Nor strain'd a slave ; and loud exclaims, till night, 
Round the proconstol's tent repeated rung. 

To one acquainted with the genius of Greece, the 
character and disposition of that polished people, ad- 



* His real name was Quintus Flaminius. 



mired for science, renowned for unextinguishable 
love of freedom, nothing can be more affecting than 
this instance of generous magnanimity of the Ro- 
man people, in restoring them unasked to the full 
fruition of those liberties which they had so un- 
fortunately lost. 

The mind of sensibility is equally struck by the 
generous confidence of Alexander, who drinks 
without hesitation the potion presented by his phy- 
sician Philip, even after he had received intima- 
tion that poison was contained in the cup ; a noble 
and pathetic scene ! which hath acquired new dig- 
nity and expression under the inimitable pencil of 
a Le Sueur. Humanity is melted into tears of 
tender admiration, by the deportment of Henry 
IV. of France, while his rebellious subjects com- 
pelled him to form the blockade of his capital. In 
chastising his enemies, he could not but remem- 
ber they were his people ; and knowing they were 
reduced to the extremity of famine, he generously 
connived at the methods practised to supply them 
with provision. Chancing one day to meet two 
peasants, who had been detected in these practices, 
as they were led to execution they implored his 
clemency, declaring in the sight of Heaven, they 
had no other way to procure subsistence for their 
wives and children ; he pardoned them on the spot, 
and giving them all the money that was in his 
purse, " Henry of Bearne is poor," said he, " had 
he more money to afford, you should have it — go 
home to your families in peace ; and remember 
your duty to God, and your allegiance to your sove- 
reign." Innumerable examples of the same kind 
may be selected from history, both ancient and 
modern, the study of which we would therefore 
strenuously recommend. 

Historical knowledge indeed becomes necessary 
on many other accounts, which in its place we will 
explain ; but as the formation of the heart is of 
the first consequence, and should precede the cul- 
tivation of the understanding, such striking in- 
stances of superior virtue ought to be culled for the 
perusal of the young pupil, who will read them 
with eagerness, and revolve them with pleasure. 
Thus the young mind becomes enamoured of moral 
beauty, and the passions are listed on the side of 
humanity. Meanwhile knowledge of a different 
species will go hand in hand with the advances of 
morality, and the understanding be gradually ex- 
tended. Virtue and sentiment reciprocally assist 
each other, and both conduce to the improvement 
of perception. While the scholar's chief attention 
is employed in learning the Latin and Greek lan- 
guages, and this is generally the task of childhood 
and early youth, it is even then the business of 
the preceptor to give his mind a turn for observa- 
tion, to direct his powers of discernment, to point 
out the distinguishing marks of character, and 
dwell upon the charms of moral aod intellectual 



500 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



beauty, as they may chance to occur in the classics 
that are used for his instruction. In reading Cor- 
nelius Nepos, and Plutarch's Lives, even with a 
view to grammatical improvement only, he will in- 
sensibly imbibe, and learn to compare ideas of 
greater importance. He will become enamoured 
of virtue and patriotism, and acquire a detestation 
for vice, cruelty, and corruption. The perusal of 
the Roman story in the works of Florus, Sallust, 
Livy, and Tacitus, will irresistibly engage his at- 
tention, expand his conception, cherish his memo- 
ry, exercise his judgment, and warm him with a 
noble spirit of emulation. He will contemplate 
with love and admiration the disinterested can- 
dour of Aristides, surnamed the Just, whom the 
guilty cabals of his rival Themistocles exiled from 
his ungrateful country, by a sentence of Ostracism. 
He will be surprised to learn, that one of his fellow- 
citizens, an illiterate artisan, bribed by his enemies, 
chancing to meet him in the street without know- 
ing his person, desired he would write Aristides on 
his shell (which was the method those plebeians 
used to vote against delinquents), when the inno- 
cent patriot wrote his own name wdthout com- 
plaint or expostulation. He will with equal as- 
tonishment applaud the inflexible integrity of Fa- 
bricius, who preferred the poverty of innocence to 
all the pomp of affluence, with which Pyrrhus 
endeavoured to seduce him from the arms of his 
country. He will approve with transport the no- 
ble generosity of his soul in rejecting the proposal 
of that prince's physician, who offered to take 
liim off by poison ; and in sending the caitiff bound 
to his sovereign, whom he would have so basely 
and cruelly betrayed. 

In reading the ancient authors, even for the pur- 
poses of school education, the unformed taste will 
begin to relish the irresistible energy, greatness, 
and sublimity of Homer ; the serene majesty, the 
melody, and pathos of Virgil ; the tenderness of 
Sappho and Tibullus ; the elegance and propriety 
of Terence ; the grace, vivacity, satire, and senti- 
ment of Horace. 

Nothing will more conduce to the improvement 
of the scholar in his knowledge of the languages, 
as well as in taste and morality, than his being 
obliged to translate choice parts and passages of 
the most approved classics, both poetry and prose, 
especially the latter ; such as the orations of De- 
mosthenes and Isocrates, the treatise of Longinus 
on the Sublime, the Commentaries of Csesar, the 
Epistles of Cicero and the younger Pliny, and the 
two celebrated speeches in the Catilinarian con- 
spiracy by Sallust. By this practice he will be- 
come more intimate with the beauties of the writ- 
ing, and the idioms of the language, from which he 
translates ; at the same time it will form his style, 
and by exercising his talent of expression, make 
him a more perfect master of his mother tongue. 



Cicero tells us, that in translating two orations, 
which the most celebrated orators of Greece pro- 
nounced against each other, he performed this task, 
not as a servile interpreter, but as an orator, pre- 
serving the sentiments, forms, and figures of the 
original, but adapting the expression to the taste 
and manners of the Romans : In qulhus non ver- 
hum pro verba necesse habui reddere, sed genua 
omnium verborum vimque servavi ; " in which I 
did not think it was necessary to translate literally 
word for word, but I preserved the natural and fuU 
scope of the whole." Of the same opinion was 
Horace, who says, in his Art of Poetry, 

Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fldus 
Interpres 

Nor word for word translate with painful care — 

Nevertheless, in taking the liberty here granted, wo 
are apt to run into the other extreme, and substi- 
tute equivalent thoughts and phrases, till hardly 
any features of the original remain. The meta- 
phors of figures, especially in poetry, ought to be 
as religiously preserved as the images of painting, 
which we can not alter or exchange without de- 
stroying, or injuring at least, the character and 
style of the original. 

In this manner the preceptor will sow the seeds 
of that taste, which will soon germinate, rise, blos- 
som, and produce perfect fruit by dint of future care 
and cultivation. In order to restrain the luxu- 
riancy of the young imagination, which is apt to 
run riot, to enlarge the stock of ideas, exercise the 
reason, and ripen the judgment, the pupil must be 
engaged in the severer study of science. He must 
learn geometry, which Plato recommends for 
strengthening the mind, and enabling it to think 
with precision. He must be made acquainted with 
geography and chronology, and trace philosophy 
through all her branches. Without geography and 
chronology, he will not be able to acquire a distinct 
idea of history ; nor judge of the propriety of many 
interesting scenes, and a thousand allusions, that 
present themselves in the works of genius. No- 
thing opens the mind so much as the researches 
of philosophy; they inspire us with sublime con- 
ceptions of the Creator, and subject, as it were, all 
nature to our command. These bestow that liberal 
turn of thinking, and in a great measure contribute 
to that universality, in learning, by which a man 
of taste ought to be eminently distinguished. But 
history is the inexhaustible source from which he 
will derive his most useful knowledge respecting 
the progress of the human mind, the constitution 
of government, the rise and decline of empires, the 
revolution of arts, the variety of character, and the 
vicissitudes of fortune. 

The knowledge of history enables the poet not 
only to psdnt characters, but also to describe mag- 
nificent and interesting scenes of battle and adveo- 



ESSAYS. 



501 



ture. Not that the poet or painter ought to be re- 
strained to the letter of historical truth. History 
represents what has really happened in nature ; the 
other arts exhibit what might have happened, with 
such exaggeration of circumstance and feature as 
may be deemed an improvement on nature : but 
this exaggeration must not be carried beyond the 
bounds of probability; and these, generally speak- 
ing, the knowledge of history will ascertain. It 
would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to 
find a man actually existing, whose proportions 
should answer to those of the Greek statue distin- 
guished by the name of the Apollo of Belvedere ; 
or to produce a woman similar in proportion of 
parts to the other celebrated piece called the Venus 
de Medicis ; therefore it may be truly affirmed, 
that they are not conformable to the real standard 
of nature : nevertheless every artist will own, that 
they are the very archetypes of grace, elegance, 
and symmetry ; and every judging eye must be- 
hold them with admiration, as improvements on 
the lines and lineaments of nature. The truth is, 
the sculptor or statuary composed the various pro- 
portions in nature from a great number of different 
subjects, every individual of which he found im- 
perfect or defective in some one particular, though 
beautiful in all the rest ; and from these observa- 
tions, corroborated by taste and judgment, he form- 
an ideal pattern, according to which his idea was 
modelled, and produced in execution. 

Every body knows the story of Zeuxis, the fa- 
mous painter of Heraclea, who, according to Pliny, 
invented the chiaro oscuro, or disposition of light 
and shade, among the ancients, and excelled all 
his contemporaries in the chromatique, or art of 
colouring. This great artist being employed to 
draw a perfect beauty in the character of Helen, to 
be placed in the temple of Juno, culled out five of 
the most beautiful damsels the city could produce, 
and selecting what was excellent in each, com- 
bined them in one picture according to the predis- 
position of his fancy, so that it shone forth an 
amazing model of perfection.* In like manner 
every man of genius, regulated by true taste, en- 
tertains in his imagination an ideal beauty, con- 
ceived and cultivated as an improvement upon na- 
ture : and this we refer to the article of invention. 
It is the business of art to imitate nature, but not 
with a servile pencil ; and to choose those attitudes 
and dispositions only, which are beautiful and en- 
gaging. With this view, we must avoid all dis- 
agreeable prospects of nature wliich excite the 



" Prabete igitur mihi quaeso, inquit, ex istis virginibus 
formosissimas, dum pingo id, quod pollicitus sum vobis, ut 
lliutum in simulacrum ex animali exemplo Veritas txansfera- 
tur.— -Die autem quinque delegit.— Neque enim putavit om- 
nia, quse qusreret ad venustatem, uno in corpore se reperire 
posse ; ideo quod nihil simplici in genere omnibus ex partibus 
perfectum natura expolivit.— Cic. lib. ii. de Inv. cap. i. 



ideas of abhorrence and disgust. For example, a 
painter would not find his account in exhibiting 
the resemblance of a dead carcass half consumed 
by vermin, or of swine wallowing in ordure, or of 
a beggar lousing himself on a dunghill, though 
these scenes should be painted ever so naturally, 
and all the world must allow that the scenes were 
taken from nature, because the merit of the imita- 
tion would be greatly overbalanced by the vile 
choice of the artist. There are nevertheless many 
scenes of horror, which please in the representa- 
tion, from a certain interesting greatness, which 
we shall endeavour to explain, when we come to 
consider the sublime. 

Were we to judge every production by the rigor- 
ous rules of nature, we should reject the Iliad of 
Homer, the Mneid of Virgil, and every celebrated 
tragedy of antiquity and the present times, because 
there is no such thing in nature as a Hector or 
Turnus talking in hexameter, or an Othello in 
blank verse : we should condemn the Hercules of 
Sophocles, and the Miser of Moliere, because we 
never knew a hero so strong as the one, or a wretch 
so sordid as the other. But if we consider poetry 
as an elevation of natural dialogue, as a delightful 
vehicle for conveying the noblest sentiments of he- 
roism and patriot virtue, to regale the sense with 
the sounds of musical expression, while the fancy 
is ravished with enchanting images, and the heart 
warmed to rapture and ecstasy, we must allow that 
poetry is a perfection to which nature would glad- 
ly aspire ; and that though it surpasses, it does not 
deviate from her, provided the characters are mark- 
ed with propriety and sustained by genius. Charac- 
ters therefore, both in poetry and painting, may be 
a little overcharged or exaggerated without offer- 
ing violence to nature ; nay, they must be exag- 
gerated in order to be striking, and to preserve the 
idea of imitation, whence the reader and spectator 
derive in many instances their chief delight. If 
we meet a common acquaintance in the street, we 
see him without emotion ; but should we chance to 
spy his portrait well executed, we are struck with 
pleasing admiration. In this case the pleasure 
arises entirely from the imitation. We every day 
hear unmoved the natives of Ireland and Scotland 
speaking their own dialects ; but should an Eng- 
lish mimic either, we are apt to burst out into a 
loud laugh of applause, being surprised and tickled 
by the imitation alone ; though, at the same time, 
we can not but allow that the imitation is imperfect. 
We are more affected by reading Shakspeare's de- 
scription of Dover Cliff, and Otway's picture of 
the Old Hag, than we should be were we actually 
placed on the summit of the one, or met in reality 
with such a beldame as the other : because in read- 
ing these descriptions we refer to our own experi- 
ence, and perceive with surprise the justness of the 
imitations. But if it is so close as to be mistaken 



503 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



for nature, the pleasure then will cease, because 
the fAtfxwti or imitation no longer appears. 

Aristotle says, that all poetry and music is imi- 
tation,* whether epic, tragic, or comic, whether 
vocal or instrumental, from the pipe or the lyre. 
He observes, that in man there is a propensity to 
imitate even from his infancy ; that the first per 
ceptions of the mind are acquired by imitation ; and 
seems to think, that the pleasure derived from imi- 
tation is the gratification of an appetite implanted 
by nature. We should rather think the pleasure 
jt gives arises from the mind's contemplating that 
.excellency of art which thus rivals nature, and 
seems to vie with her in creating such a striking 
resemblance of her works. Thus the arts may be 
justly termed imitative, even in the article of in- 
vention : for in forming a character, contriving an 
incident, and describing a scene, he must still keep 
nature in view, and refer every particular of his 
invention to her standard ; otherwise his produc- 
tion will be destitute of truth and probabiUty, 
without which the beauties of imitation can not 
subsist. It will be a monster of incongruity, such 
as Horace alludes to, in the beginning of his Epistle 
to the Pisos : 

Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumaa 
JJndique cojlatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
Desipat m piscem, mulier formosa superne: 
SSpectatum admlssi risuni teneatis, amici ? 

Suppose a painter fo a human head 
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread 
The various plumage of the feather'd kind 
O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly join'd; 
Or if he gave to view a beauteous maid 
Above the waist witli every charm array'd; 
(Should a foul fish her lower parts unfold, 
\yould you not laugh such pictures to behold 1 

The magazine of nature supplies all those images 
which compose the most beautiful imitations. This 
the artist examines occasionally, as he would con- 
sult a collection of masterly sketches; and selecting 
particulars for his purpose, mingles the ideas with 
a kind of enthusiasm, or to S-aov, which is that gift 
of Heaven we call genius, and finally produces 
such a whole as conjmands admiration and ap- 
plause. 



ESSAY XIV. 

The study of polite literature is generally sup- 
posed to include all the liberal arts of poetry, paint- 



vh.uiT» K'M KtBufinniii.li; Trag-m ^ToyyAvouiriv ci/a-ai 
Ml*>li ii; TO auvoKav. 



ing, sculpture, music, eloquence, and architecture. 
All these are founded on imitation; and all of them 
mutually assist and illustrate each other. But as 
painting, sculpture, music, and architecture, can 
not be perfectly attained without long practice of 
manual operation, we shall distinguish them from 
poetry and eloquence, which depend entirely on 
the faculties of the mind; and on these last, as on 
the arts which immediately constitute the Belles 
Lettres, employ our attention in the present in- 
quiry : or if it should run to a greater length than 
we propose, it shall be confined to poetry alone ; a 
subject that comprehends in its full extent the 
province of taste, or what is called polite literature ; 
and differs essentially from eloquence, both in its 
end and origin. • 

Poetry sprang from ease, and was consecrated 
to pleasure ; whereas eloquence arose from neces- 
sity, and aims at conviction. When we say poetry 
sprang from ease, perhaps we ought to except that 
species of it which owed its rise to inspiration and 
enthusiasm, and properl}' belonged to the culture 
of religion. In the first ages of mankind, and even 
in the original state of nature, the unlettered mind 
must have been struck with sublime conceptions, 
with admiration and awe, by those great phenome- 
na, which, though every day repeated, can never 
be viewed without internal emotion. Those 
would break forth in exclamations expressive of 
the passion produced, whether surprise or grati- 
tude, terror or exultation. The rising, the ap- 
parent course, the setting, and seeming renova- 
tion of the sun ; the revolution of light and dark- 
ness; the splendour, change, and circuit of the 
moon, and the canopy of heaven bespangled with 
stars, must have produced expressions of wonder 
and adoration. "O glorious luminary! great 
eye of the world! source of that light which guides 
my steps ! of that heat which warms me when 
chilled with cold! of that influence which cheers 
the face of nature! whither dost thou retire every 
evening with the shades ? whence dost thou spring 
every morning with renovated lustre, and never 
fading glory? Art not thou the ruler, the creator, 
the god, of all I behold? I adore thee, as thy child, 
thy slave, thy suppliant ! I crave thy protection, 
and the continuance of thy goodness! Leave me 
not to perish with cold, or to wander soUtary in 
utter darkness! Return, return, after thy wonted 
absence, drive before thee the gloomy clouds that 
would obscure the face of nature. The birds begin 
to warble, and every animal is filled with gladness 
at thy approach : even the trees, the herbs, and the 
flowers, seem to rejoice with fresher beauties, and 
send forth a grateful incense to thy power, whence 
their origin is derived !" A number of individuals 
inspired with the same ideas, would join in these 
orisons, which would be accompanied with corres- 
ponding gesticulations of the body. They would 



ESSAYS. 



503 



be improved by practice, and grow regular from 
repetition. The sounds and gestures would natu- 
rally fall into measured cadence. Thus the song 
and dance will be produced; and, a system of 
worship being formed, the muse would be conse- 
crated to the purposes of religion. 

Hence those forms of thanksgivings, and lita- 
nies of supplication, with which the religious rites 
of all nations, even the most barbarous, are at this 
day celebrated in every quarter of the known world 
Indeed this is a circumstance in which all nations 
surprisingly agree, how much soever they may 
differ in every other article of laws, customs, man- 
ners, and religion. The ancient Egyptians cele 
brated the festivals of their god Apis with hymns 
and dances. The superstition of the Greeks, part 
ly derived from the Egyptians, abounded with po- 
etical ceremonies, such as choruses and hymns, 
sung and danced at their apotheoses, sacrifices, 
games, and divinations. The Romans had their 
carmen seculare, and Salian priests, who on cer- 
tain festivals sung and danced through the streets 
of Rome. The Israelites were famous for this kind 
of exultation : " And Miriam the prophetess, the 
sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all 
the women went out after her, with timbrels and 
with dances, and Miriam answered them, Sing ye 
to the Lord," etc. — "And David danced before the 
Lord with all his might." — The psalms composed 
by this monarch, the songs of Deborah and Isaiah, 
are further confirmations of what we have ad vanced. 

From the Phoenicians the Greeks borrowed the 
cursed Orthyan song, when they sacrificed their 
children to Diana. The poetry of the bards con- 
stituted great partof the religious ceremonies among 
the Gauls and Britons, and the carousals of the 
Goths were religious institutions, celebrated with 
songs of triumph. The Mahometan Dervise dances 
to the sound of the flute, and whirls himself round 
until he grows giddy, and falls into a trance. The 
Marabous compose hymns in praise of Allah. The 
Chinese celebrate their grand festivals with pro- 
cessions of idols, songs, and instrumental music. 
The Tartars, Samoiedes, Laplanders, Negroes, 
even the Caffres called Hottentots, solemnize their 
worship (such as it is) with songs and dancing ; 
so that we may venture to say, poetry is the uni- 
versal vehicle in which all nations have expressed 
their most sublime conceptions. 

Poetry was, in all appearance, previous to any 
concerted plan of worship, and to every establish- 
ed system of legislation. When certain individuals, 
by dint of superior prowess or understanding, had 
acquired the veneration of tlieir fellow-savages, and 
erected themselvss into divinities on the ignorance 
and superstition of mankind ; then mythology took 
place, and such a swarm of deities arose as pro- 
duced a religion replete with the most shocking ab- 
surdities. Those whom their superior talents bad 



deified, were found to be still actuated by the most 
brutal passions of human nature ; and in all proba- 
bility their votaries were glad to find such exam' 
pies, to countenance their own vicious inclinations. 
Thus fornication, incest, rape, and even bestiality, 
were sanctified by the amours of Jupiter, Pan, 
Mars, Venus and Apollo. Theft was patronized 
by Mercury ; drunkenness by Bacchus ; and cru- 
elty by Diana. The same heroes and legislators, 
those who delivered their country, founded cities, 
established societies, invented useful arts, or con- 
tributed in any eminent degree to the security and 
happiness of their fellow-creatures were inspired by 
the same lusts and appetites which domineered 
among the inferior classes of manldnd ; therefore 
every vice incident to human nature was celebrat- 
ed in the worship of one or other of these divini- 
ties, and every infirmity consecrated by public 
feast and solemn sacrifice. In these institutions 
the poet bore a principal share. It was his genius 
that contrived the plan, that executed the form of 
worship, and recorded in verse the origin and ad- 
ventures of their gods and demi-gods. Hence 
the impurities and horrors of certain rites ; the 
groves of Paphos and Baal Peer; the orgies of 
Bacchus; the human sacrifices to Moloch and 
Diana. Hence the theogony of Hesiod; the 
theology of Homer ; and those innumerable max- 
ims scattered through the ancient poets, invit- 
ing mankind to gratify their sensual appetites, in 
imitation of the gods, who were certainly the best 
judges of happiness. It is well known, that Plato 
expelled Homer from his commonwealth on account 
of the infamous characters by which he has distin- 
guished his deities, as well as for some depraved 
sentiments which he found diffused through the 
course of the Iliad and Odyssey. Cicero enters into 
the spirit of Plato, and exclaims, in his first book, 
"De Natura Deorum:" — Nee inulta absurdiora 
sunt ea, qua, poetaruinvocihus fusa, ipsa suavitate 
nocuerunt: qui, et ira injlainmatos, et libidineju- 
rentes, induxerunt Deos, feceruntque ut corum 
bella, pugnas, prcelia, vulnera videremus: odia 
prccterea, dissidia, discordias, orius, interriius, 
querelas, laTnenlationes, effusas in omni intem- 
perantid libidines, adulteria, vincula, cum huma- 
no genere concubitus, mortalesque ex immortali 
procreates. " Nor are those things much more ab- 
surd, which, flowing from the poet's tongue, have 
done mischief, even by the sweetness of his expres- 
sion. The poets have introduced gods inflamed 
with anger, and enraged with lust ; and even pro- 
duced before our eyes their wars, their wranglings, 
their duels, and their wounds. They have ex- 
posed, besides, their antipathies, animosities, and 
dissensions ; their origin and death ; their com- 
plaints and lamentations; their appetites, indulged 
to all manner of excess, their adulteries, their fet- 
ters, their amorous commerce with the human spe- 



504 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



cies, and from immortal parents derived a mortal 
offspring." 

As the festivals of the gods necessarily produced 
good cheer, which often carried to riot and de- 
bauchery, mirth of consequence prevailed; and 
this was always attended with buffoonery. Taunts 
and jokes, and raillery and repartee, would neces- 
sarily ensue ; and individuals would contend for 
the victory in wdt and genius. These contests 
would in time be reduced to some regulations, for 
the entertainment of the people thus assembled, 
and some prize would be decreed to him who was 
judged to excel his rivals. The candidates for 
fame and profit, being thus stimulated, would task 
their talents, and naturally recommend these alter 
nate recriminations to the audience, by clothing 
them with a kind of poetical measure, which 
should bear a near resemblance to prose. Thus, 
as the solemn service of the day was composed in 
the most sublime species of poetry, such as the ode 
or hymn, the subsequent altercation was carried on 
in iambics, and gave rise to satire. We are told 
by the Stagirite, that the highest species of poetry 
was employed in celebrating great actions, but the 
humbler sort used in this kind of contention ;* 
and that in the ages of antiquity there were some 
bards that professed heroics, and some that pre- 
tended to iambics only. 

0< (AVI ifommv, at h ntfA^mv ttoihtu.!. 

To these rude beginnings we not only owe the 
birth of satire, but likewise the origin of dramatic 
poetry. Tragedy herself, which afterwards at- 
tained to such dignity as to rival the epic muse, 
was at first no other than a trial of crambo, or iam- 
bics, between two peasants, and a goat was the 
prize, as Horace calls it, vile certamen ob hircum, 
" a mean contest for a he-goat." Hence the name 
TpnyaS'ia, signifying the goat-song, from rpctyo; 
hircus, and oxTx carmen. 

Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum, 
Mox etiam agrestes satyros nudavit, et asper 
Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod 
Ulecebris erat et grata novitate morandus 
Spectator, functusque sacris, et potus et exlex. 

Jlorat. 

Tlie tragic bard, a goat his humble prize, 

Bade satyrs naked and uncouth arise ; 

His muse severe, secure and undismay'd, 

The rustic joke in solemn strain convey'd ; 

For novelty alone he knew could charm 

A lawless crowd, with wine and feasting wann. 

Satire then was originally a clownish dialogue 
in loose iambics, so called because the actors were 



Ot fiiiv ya.fl tri/nvoTipct, to.; KttXsi; ijuiuouvTO vpct^ii; 
— « (Ta (UTiKivTifoij TO,; tcdv ^aMMV, ■^rfurov Myois Tot- 
twvu. 



disguised like satyrs, who not only recited thepraises 
of Bacchus, or some other deity, but interspersed 
their hymns with sarcastic jokes and altercation. 
Of this kind is the Cyclop of Euripides, in which 
Ulysses is the principal actor. The Romans also 
had their AtellancB or interludes of the same na- 
ture, so called from the city of Atella, where they 
were first acted ; but these were highly polished 
in comparison of the original entertainment, which 
was altogether rude and innocent. Indeed, the 
Cyclop itself, though composed by the accomplish- 
ed Euripides, abounds with such impurity as ought 
not to appear on the stage of any civilized nation. 

It is very remarkable, that the AtellancB, which 
were in effect tragi-comedies, grew into such esteem 
among the Romans, that the performers in these 
pieces enjoyed several privileges which were re- 
fused to the ordinary actors. They were not obliged 
to unmask, like the other players, when their ac- 
tion was disagreeable to the audience. They were 
admitted into the army, and enjoyed the privileges 
of free citizens, without incurring that disgrace 
which was affixed to the characters of other actors.* 
The poet Laberius, who was of equestrian order, 
being pressed by Julius Cffisar to act a part in his 
own performance, complied with great reluctance, 
and complained of the dishonour he had incurred 
in his prologue preserved by Macrobius, which is 
one of the most elegant morsels of antiquity. 

Tragedy and comedy flowed from the same 
fountain, though their streams were soon divided. 
The same entertainment which under the name 
of tragedy, was rudely exhibited by clowns, for 
the prize of a goat, near some rural altar of Bac- 
chus, assumed the appellation of comedy when it 
was transferred into cities, and represented with a 
little more decorum in a cart or wagon that strol- 
led from street to street, as the name xufAODS'iu im- 
plies, being derived from kco/aii a street, and uS'ii a 
poem. To this origin Horace alludes in these lines : 

Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Quae canerent agerentque peruncti faecibus ora, 

Thespis, inventor of dramatic art, 

Convey'd his vagrant actors in a cart : 

High o'er the crowd the mimic art appear'd. 

And play'd and sung, with lees of wine besmear'd. 

Thespis is called the inventor of the dramatic 
art, because he raised the subject from clownish 
altercation to the character and exploits of some 
hero ; he improved the language and versification, 
and reUeved the chorus by the dialogue of two 
actors. This was the first advance towards that 
consummation of genius and art which constitutes 
what is now called a perfect tragedy. The next 



* Cum artem ludicram, scenamque totam probro ducerent 
genus id hominum non modo honore civium reliquorum ca- 
rere, sed etiam tribu moveri notatione censoria voluerunt — 
Cic. apud. S. Aug. de Civit. Dei. 



ESSAYS. 



505 



great improver was ^schylus, of whom the same 
critic says, 

Post himc personsE palteque repertor honestae 
iEschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis; 
Et docuit magnumque loquij nitique cothurno. 

Then ^schylus a decent vizard used ; 
Built a low stage ; the flowing robe diflfused. 
In language more sublime two actors rage, 
And in the graceful buskin tread the stage. 

The dialogue which Thespis introduced was 
called the episode, because it was an addition to 
the former subject, namely, the praises of Bac 
chus ; so that now tragedy consisted of two dis- 
tinct parts, independent of each other ; the old re- 
citative, which was the chorus, sung in honour of 
the gods ; and the episode, which turned upon the 
adventures of some hero. This episode being 
found very agreeable to the people, ^schylus, who 
lived about half a century after Thespis, still im- 
proved the drama, united the chorus to the episode, 
so as to make them both parts or members of one 
fable, multiplied the actors, contrived the stage, and 
introduced the decorations of the theatre ; so that 
Sophocles, who succeeded iEschylus, had but one 
step to surmount in order to bring the drama to 
perfection. Thus tragedy was gradually detached 
from its original institution, which was entirely 
religious. The priests of Bacchus loudly com- 
plained of this innovation by means of the episode, 
which was foreign to the intention of the chorus ; 
and hence arose the proverb of Nihil ad Dyonysi- 
um, " Nothing to the purpose." Plutarch himself 
mentions the episode as a perversion of tragedy 
from the honour of the gods to the passions of men. 
But, notwithstanding all opposition, the new tra- 
gedy succeeded to admiration; because it was found 
the most pleasing vehicle of conveying moral 
truths, of meUorating the heart, and extending the 
interests of humanity. 

Comedy, according to Aristotle, is the younger 
sister of tragedy. As the first originally turned 
upon the praises of the gods, the latter dwelt on 
the follies and vices of mankind. Such, we mean, 
was the scope of that species of poetry which ac- 
quired the name of comedy, in contradistinction to 
the tragic muse ; for in the beginning they were the 
same. The foundation upon which comedy was 
built, we have already explained to be the practice 
of satirical repartee or altercation, in which indi- 
viduals exposed the follies and frailties of each 
other on public occasions of worship and festivity. 

The first regular plan of comedy is said to have 
been the Margites of Homer, exposing the idle- 
ness and folly of a worthless character ; but of this 
performance we have no remains. That division 
which is termed the ancient comedy, belongs to 
the labours of Eupohs, Cratinus, and Aristopha- 
nes, who were contemporaries, and flourished at 
Athens about four hundred and thirty years be- 1 



fore the Christian era. Such was the license of 
the muse at this period, that far from lashing vice 
in general characters, she boldly exhibited the ex- 
act portrait of every individual who had rendered 
himself remarkable or notorious by his crimes, 
folly, or debauchery. She assumed every circum- 
stance of his external appearance, his very attire, 
air, manner, and even his name ; according to the 
observation of Horace, 



-Poetae 



quorum comtedia prisca virorumest: 

Si quis erat dignus describi, quod malus, aut fur, 
Quod moechua foret, aut sicarius, aut alioqui 
Famosus, multa cum libertate notabant. 

The comic poets, in its earliest age, 

Wlio formed the manners of the Grecian stage — 

Was there a villain who might justly claim 

A better right of being damn'd to fame, 

Rake, cut-throat, thief, whatever was his crime, 

They boldly stigmatized the wretch in rhyme. 

Eupolis is said to have satirized Alcibiades in this 
manner, and to have fallen a sacrifice to the re- 
sentment of that powerful Athenian; but others 
say he was drowned in the Hellespont, during a 
war against the Lacedemonians ; and that in con- 
sequence of this accident the Athenians passed a 
decree, that no poet should ever bear arms. 

The comedies of Cratinus are recommended by 
CLuintilian for their eloqence ; and Plutarch tells us 
that even Pericles himself could not escape the 
censure of this poet. 

Aristophanes, of whom there are eleven come- 
dies still extant, enjoyed such a pre-eminence of 
reputation, that the Athenians by a public decree 
honoured him with a crown made of consecrated 
olive-tree, which grew in the citadel, for his care 
and success in detecting and exposing the vices of 
those who governed the commonwealth. Yet this 
poet, whether impelled by mere wantonness of 
genius, or actuated by malice and envy, could not 
refrain from employing the shafts of his ridicule 
against Socrates, the most venerable character of 
Pagan antiquity. In the comedy of the Clouds, 
this virtuous philosopher was exhibited on the 
stage under his own name, in a cloak exactly re- 
sembling that which Socrates wore, in a mask mo- 
delled from his features, disputing publicly on the 
nature of right and wrong. This was undoubted- 
ly an instance of the most flagrant licentiousness ; 
and what renders it the more extraordinary, the 
audience received it with great applause, even 
while Socrates himself sat publicly in the theatre. 
The truth is, the Athenians were so fond of ridi- 
cule, that they relished it even when employed 
against the gods themselves, some of whose cha- 
racters were very roughly handled by Aristopha- 
nes and his rivals in reputation. 

We might here draw a parallel between the in- 
habitants of Athens and the natives of England; 



506 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



in point of constitution, genius, and disposition, 
Athens was a free state like England, that piqued 
itself upon the influence of the democracy. Like 
England, its wealth and strength depended upon 
its maritime power : and it generally acted as um- 
pire in the disputes that arose among its neigh- 
bours. The people of Athens, like those of Eng- 
land, were remarkably ingenious, and made great 
progress in the arts and sciences. They excelled 
in poetry, history, philosophy, mechanics, and 
manufactures; they were acute, discerning, dis- 
putatious, fickle, wavering, rash, and combustible, 
and, above all other nations in Europe, addicted to 
ridicule ; a character which the English inherit in 
a very remarkable degree. 

If we may judge from the writings of Aristo- 
phanes, his chief aim was to gratify the spleen and 
excite the mirth of his audience ; of an audience 
too, that would seem to have been uninformed by 
taste, and altogether ignorant of decorum ; for his 
pieces are replete with the most extravagant ab- 
surdities, virulent slander, impiety, impurities, and 
low buffoonery. The comic muse, not contented 
with being allowed to make free with the gods and 
philosophers, applied her scourge so severely to the 
magistrates of the commonwealth, that it was 
thought proper to restrain her within bounds by a 
law, enacting, that no person should be stigmatized 
under his real name ; and thus the chorus was si- 
lenced. In order to elude the penalty of this law, 
and gratify the taste of the people, the poets began 
to substitute fictitious names, under which they ex- 
hibited particular characters in such lively colours, 
that the resemblance could not possibly be mistaken 
or overlooked. This practice gave rise to what is 
called the middle comedij. which was but of short 
duration ; for the legislature, perceiving that the first 
law had not removed the grievance against which 
it was provided, issued a second ordinance, forbid- 
ding, under severe penalties, any real or family oc- 
currences to be represented. This restriction was 
the immediate cause of improving comedy into a 
general mirror, held forth to reflect the various fol- 
lies and foibles incident to human nature ; a species 
of writing called the new comedy, introduced by 
Diphilus and Menander, of whose works nothing 
but a few fragments remain. 



ESSAY XV. 

Having communicated our sentiments touching 
the origin of poetry, by tracing tragedy and comedy 
to their common source, we shall now endeavour 
to point out the criteria by which poetry is distin- 
guished from every other species of writing. In 
common with other arts, such as statuary and paint- 
ing, it comprehends imitation, invention, composi- 



tion, and enthusiasm. Imitation is indeed the ba- 
sis of all the Uberal arts ; invention and enthusiasm 
constitute genius, in whatever manner it may be 
displayed. Eloquence of all sorts admits of enthu- 
siasm. Tully says, an orator shohld be vehemens 
ut procella, excitatus ut torrens, incensus ut ful- 
men; ionat, Julgurat, et rapidis eloquentias Jiuc- 
tibus cuncta proruit et proturhat. " Violent as a 
tempest, impetuous as a tonrent, and glowing in- 
tense like the red bolt of heaven, he thunders, 
lightens, overthrows, and bears down all before 
him, by the irresistible tide of eloquence." This 
is the mens divinior atque os magna sonaturum, 
of Horace. This is the talent, 

Meum qui pectus inaniter angit, 

Initat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet, 
Ut magus. 

With passions not my own who fires my heart; 
Who with um-eal terrors fills my breast 
As with a magic influence possess'd. 

We are told, that Michael Angelo Buonaroti used 
to work at his statues in a fit of enthusiasm, during 
which he made the fragments of the stone fly about 
him with surprising violence. The celebrated 
Lully being one day blamed for setting nothing to 
music but the languid verses of GLuinault, was ani- 
mated with the reproach, and running in a fit of 
enthusiasm to his harpsichord, sung in recitative, 
and accompanied four pathetic lines from the Iphi- 
genia of Racine, with such expression as filled the 
hearers with astonishment and horror. 

Though versification be one of the criteria that 
distinguish poetry from prose, yet it is not the sole 
mark of distinction. Were the histories of Poly- 
bius and Livy simply turned into verse, they would 
not become poems ; because they would be desti- 
tute of those figures, embellishments, and flights 
of imagination, which display the poet's art and 
invention. On the other hand, we have many pro- 
ductions that justly lay claim to the title of poetry, 
without having the advantage of versification ; wit- 
ness the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, 
with many beautiful hymns, descriptions, and 
rhapsodies, to be found in different parts of the 
Old Testament, some of them the immediate pro- 
duction of divine inspiration ; witness the Celtic 
fragments which have lately appeared in the Eng- 
lish language, and are certainly replete with poeti- 
cal merit. But though good versification alone will 
not constitute poetry, bad versification alone will 
certairdy degrade and render disgustful the sub- 
Umest sentiments and finest flowers of imagination. 
This humiliating power of bad verse appears in 
many translations of the ancient poets ; in Ogilby's 
Homer, Trapp's Virgil, and frequently in Creech's 
Horace. This last indeed is not wholly devoid 
of spirit ; but it seldom rises above mediocrity, and, 
as Horace says, 



ESSAYS. 



507 



— — Mediocribus esse poetis 

Non homines, non Di, non conceffiere columns. 

But God and man, and letter'd post denies, 
That poets ever are of middling size. 

How is that beautiful ode, beginning with Jus 
turn et tenacem propositi virum, chilled and tamed 
by the following translation : 

He who by principle is sway'd, 

In truth and justice still the same, 
Is neither of the crowd afraid, 

Though civil broils the state inflame ; 
Nor to a haughty tyrant's frown will stoop. 
Nor to a raging storm, when all the winds are up. 

Should nature with convulsions shake, 

Struck with the fiery bolts of Jove, 
The final doom and dreadful crack 

Can not his constant courage move. 

That long Alexandrine — "Nor to a raging 
storm, when all the winds are up," is drawling, 
feeble, swoln with a pleonasm or tautology, as well 
as deficient in the rhyme ; and as for the "dread- 
ful crack," in the next stanza, instead of exciting 
terror, it conveys a low and ludicrous idea. How 
much more elegant and energetic is this paraphrase 
of the same ode, inserted in one of the volumes of 
Hume's History of England. 

The man whose mind, on virtue bent, 
Pursues some greatly good intent 

With undiverted aim, 
Serene beholds the angry crowd ; 
Nor can their clamours fierce and loud 

His stubborn honoiu: tame. 

Nor the proud tyrant's fiercest threat, 
Nor storms that from their dark retreat 

The lawless surges wake ; 
Nor Jove's dread bolt, that shakes the pole. 
The firmer purpose of his soul 

With all its power can shake. 

Should nature's frame in ruins fall. 
And Chaos o'er the sinking ball 

Resume primeval sway, 
His courage chance and fate defies. 
Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies 

Obstruct its destined way. 

If poetry exists independent of versification, it 
will naturally be asked, how then is it to be dis- 
tinguished 1 Undoubtedly by its own peculiar 
expression ; it has a language of its own, which 
speaks so feelingly to the heart, and so pleasingly 
to the imagination, that its meaning can not pos- 
sibly be misunderstood by any person of delicate 
sensations. It is a species of painting with words, 
in which the figures are happily conceived, ingeni- 
ously arranged, affectingly expressed, and recom- 
mended with all the warmth and harmony of ' Namque ab his (scilicet poetis) et in rebus spiritus, et in 
colourincr : it consists of imagery, description, meta- ""^^^'^ sublimitas, et in affectibus motus omnis, et in personia 
phors, similes, and sentiments, adapted with p^. decorpetitur.-Q«i«h7ta;», 1. x. 

'. 11. -IT t Q.ua3 regio, quae ora, quE species formiB, qute pugna, qui 

pnety to the subject, so contrived and executed as ' ot^g hominum, qui ferarum, non ita expictus est, ut quas 
to soothe the ear, surprise and delight the fancy, | ipse non viderit, nosutvideramus, effecerit! 



mend and melt the heart, elevate the mind, and 
please the understanding. According to Flaccus : 

Autprodesse volunt, autdelectare poetae; 
Aut simul et jucimda et idonea dicere vitse. 

Poets would profit or delight mankind. 

And with th' amusing show th' instructive join'd. 

Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 

Profit and pleasure mingled thus with art, 
To soothe the fancy and improve the heart. 

Tropes and figures are likewise liberally used in 
rhetoric : and some of the most celebrated orators 
have owned themselves much indebted to the poets, 
Theophrastus expressly recommends the poets for 
this purpose. From their source, the spirit and 
energy of the pathetic, the sublime, and the beauti- 
ful, are derived.* But these figures must be more 
sparingly used in rhetoric than in poetry, and even 
then mingled with argumentation, and a detail of 
facts altogether different from poetical narration. 
The poet, instead of simply relating the incident, 
strikes off a glowing picture of the scene, and ex- 
hibits it in the most lively colours to the eye of the 
imagination. "It is reported that Homer was 
blind," says Tully in his Tusculan (Questions, 
"yet his poetry is no other than painting. What 
country, what climate, what ideas, battles, commo- 
tions, and contests of men, as well as of wild beasts, 
has he not painted in such a manner as to bring 
before our eyes those very scenes, which he him- 
self could not behold !"t We cannot therefore 
subscribe to the opinion of some ingenious critics, 
who have blamed Mr. Pope for deviating in some 
instances from the simplicity of Homer, in his 
translation of the Iliad and Odyssey. For example, 
the Grecian bard says simply, the sun rose ; and 
his translator gives us a beautiful picture of the sun 
rising. Homer mentions a person who played 
upon the lyre ; the translator sets him before us 
warbling to the silver strings. If this be a devia- 
tion, it is at the same time an improvement. Homer 
himself, as Cicero observes above, is full of this 
kind of painting, and particularly fond of descrip- 
tion, even in situations where the action seems to 
require haste. Neptune, observing from Samo- 
thrace the discomfiture of the Grecians before Troy, 
flies to their assistance, and might have been waft- 
ed thither in half a line : but the bard describes 
him, first, descending the mountain on which he 
sat ; secondly, striding towards his palace at jEgae, 
and yoking his horses ; thirdly, he describes him 



508 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



putting on his armour ; and lastly, ascending his 
car, and driving along the surface of the sea. Far 
from being disgusted by these delays, we are de- 
lighted with the particulars of the description. 
Nothing can be more sublime than the circum- 
stance of the mountain's trembling beneath the 
footsteps of an immortal : 

. . . TM^« iT' OVpiU, (AOXfCt Kiti yx» 

But his passage to the Grecian fleet is altogether 
transporting. 

BuiT' O^dLoai mi X.V fxcLr, etc. 

He mounts the car, the golden scourge applies 
He sits superior, and the chariot flies ; 
His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep : 
Th' enormous monsters, rolling o'er the deep, 
Gambol around him on the watery way, 
And heavy whales in awkward measures play : 
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain, 
Exults and crowns the monarch of the main ; 
The parting waves before his cotirsers fly ; 
The wondering waters leave his axle dry. 

With great veneration for the memory of Mr. 
Pope, we can not help objecting to some lines of 
this translation. We have no idea of the sea's ex- 
ulting and crovfning Neptune, after it had sub- 
sided into a level plain. There is no such image 
in the original. Homer says, the whales exulted, 
and knew or owned their king ; and that the sea 
parted with joy: yn^o^vn $i &ctKct<T<rct. J'lta-Tct.To. 
Neither is there a word of the wondering waters : 
we therefore think the lines might be thus altered 
to advantage : 

They loiew and own'd the monarch of the main : 
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain ; 
The curling waves before his coursers fly, 
The parting surface leaves his brazen axle dry. 

Besides the metaphors, similes, and allusions of 
poetry, there is an infinite variety of tropes, or turns 
of expression, occasionally disseminated through 
works of genius, which serve to animate the whole, 
and distinguish the glowing effusions of real in- 
spiration from the cold efforts of mere science. 
These tropes consist of a certain happy choice and 
arrangement of words, by which ideas are artfully 
disclosed in a great variety of attitudes, of epithets, 
and compound epithets; of sounds collected in 
order to echo the sense conveyed ; of apostrophes; 
and, above all, the enchanting use of the prosopo- 
poeia, which is a kind of magic, by which the poet 
gives life and motion to every inanimate part of 
nature. Homer, describing the wrath of Agamem- 
non, in the first book of the Iliad, strikes ofl" a 
glowing image in two words : 

. . , OtrO'l <r' « TTVpt Ka/UTTirOVIITl (tXTW. 

'—Miifrom'his^ye]33ii3jlash'd the living fire. 



This indeed is a figure, which has been copied 
by Virgil, and almost all the poets of every age — 
oculis micat acribus ignis — ignescunt irse : auris 
dolor ossibus ardet. Milton, describing Satan in 
Hell, says, 

With head uplift above the wave, and eye 
That sparkling blazed! — • 

— ^He spake : and to confirm his words out flew 
Milliorifi of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
Of mighty cherubim. The sudden blaze 
Far round illumined Hell- 
There are certain words in every language par- 
ticularly adapted to the poetical expression ; some 
from the image or idea they convey to the imagi- 
nation ; and some from the effect they have upon 
the ear. The first are Vcuiy figurative ; the others 
may be called emphatical. — Rollin observes, that 
Virgil has upon many occasions poetized (if we 
may be allowed the expression) a whole sentence 
by means of the same word, which is pendere. 

Ite mes, felix quondam pecus, ite capelliE, 
Non ego vos posthac, viridi projectus in anlro, 
Dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo. 

At ease reclined beneath the verdant shade, 
No more shall I behold my happy flock 
Aloft hang browsing on the tufted rock. 

Here the word pendere wonderfully improves 
the landscape, and renders the whole passage 
beautifully picturesque. The same figurative verb 
we meet with in many different parts of the 
Mneid. 

Hi summo in fluctu pendent, Ms unda dehiscens 
Terram inter fluctus aperit. 

These on the mountain billow hung; to those 
The yawning waves thy yellow sand disclose. 

In this instance, the words pendent and dehis- 
cens, hung and yawning, are equally poetical. 
Addison seems to have had this passage in his eye, 
when he wrote his Hymn, which is inserted in 
the Spectator : 

— ^For though in dreadful worlds we hung, 
High on the broken wave. 

And in another piece of a like nature, in the 
same collection : 

Thy providence my life sustain'd 

And all my wants redress'd, 
When in the silent womb Hay, 

And hung upon the breast. 

Shakspeare, in his admired description of Dover 
cliff, uses the same expression : 

^Half way down 

Hangs one that gathers samphire — dreadful trade 1 

Nothing can be more beautiful than the follow- 
ing picture, in which Milton has introduced the 
same expressive tint : 



ESSAYS. 



509 



He, on his side, 

Leaning half raised, with looks ofcordiallove 
Hung over her enamour'd. 

"We shall give one example more from Virgil, to 
show in what a variety of scenes it may appear 
with propriety and effect. In describing the pro- 
gress of Dido's passion for iEneas, the Poet says, 

Hiacos iterum demens audire labores 
Exposcit, pendetque'Wemra. narrantis ab ore. 

The woes of Troy once more she begg'd to hear ; 
Once more the mournful tale employ'd his tongue, 
While in fond rapture on his lips she hung. 

The reader will perceive in all these instances, 
that no other word could be substituted with equal 
energy ; indeed no other word could be used with 
out degrading the sense, and defacing the image 
There are many other verbs of poetical import 
fetched from nature, and from art, which the poet 
uses to advantage, both in a literal and metaphori- 
cal sense ; and these have been always translated 
for the same purpose from one language to ano- 
ther ; such as quasso, concutio, cio, suscito, lenio, 
scBvio, manojjluo, ardeo, mico, aro, to shake, to 
wake, to rouse, to soothe, to rage, to flow, to shine 
or blaze, to plough. — CLuassantia tectum limina — 
j^neas, casu, concussus acerbo — jEre ciere viros, 
Martemque accendere cantu — ^neas acuit Mar- 
tern, et se suscitat ira — Impium lenite clamorem. 
Lenibant euros — iVe saevi magna sacerdos — Su- 
dor ad imos manabat solos — Suspensceque diu 
lachrymcB fluxere per ora — Juvenali ardebat 
amore — M icat aereus ensis — Nullum maris cequor 
arandum. It will be unnecessary to insert exam- 
ples of the same nature from the English poets. 

The words we term emphatical, are such as by 
their sound express the sense they are intended to 
convey : and with these the Greek abounds, above 
all other languages, not only from its natural copi- 
ousness, flexibility, and significance, but also from 
the variety of its dialects, which enables a writer 
to vary his terminations occasionally as the nature 
of the subject requires, without offending the most 
delicate ear, or incurring the imputation of adopt- 
ing vulgar provincial expressions. Every smat- 
terer in Greek can repeat 

B« (T' a.Kim TtOLftt. Qtva ■TtoXv^Xoia-SoLo 6aKa.a-irhSf 

in which the last two words wonderfully echo to 
the sense, conveying the idea of the sea dashing on 
the shore. How much more significant in sound 
than that beautiful image of Shakspeare — 

The sea that on the unnumber'd pebbles beats. 

And yet, if we consider the strictness of pro- 
priety, this last expression would seem to have 
been selected on purpose to concur with the other 
crcumstances, which are brought together to as- 



certain the vast height of Dover cliff ; for the poet 
adds, " can not be heard so high." The place 
where Glo'ster stood was so high above the surface 
of the sea, that the <f Ao/a-fo?, or dashing, could 
not be heard ; and therefore an enthusiastic admir- 
er of Shakspeare might with some plausibility 
affirm, the poet had chosen an expression in which 
that sound is not at all conveyed. 

In the very same page of Homer's Iliad we 
meet with two other striking instances of the same 
sort of beauty. Apollo, incensed at the insults his 
priest had sustained, descends from the lop of Olym- 
pus, with his bow and quiver rattUng on his shoul- 
der as he moved along ; 

'EnKciy^Av eT' ap oia-Tte nr ay,ccv. 

Here the sound of the word Ea\ot^|av admirably ex- 
presses the clanking of armour ; as the third line 
after this surprisingly imitates the twanging of a 
bow. 

Auv» S'i KXa.yy>i yivcr etpyvfiioio Btoto. 

Inshrill-ton'd murmurs sung the twanging bow. 

Many beauties of the same kind are scattered 
through Homer, Pindar, and Theocritus, such as 
the fiofxCivira. fAikiTact, susurrans apicula ; the 
a.S'u -^i^vpta-fAct, dulcem susurrum; and the /xiXia-J'i- 
Tcu, for the sighing of the pine. 

The Latin language teems with sounds adapted to 
every situation, and the English is not destitute of 
this significant energy. We have the cooing turtle, 
the sighing reed, the warbling rivulet, the sliding 
stream, the whispering breeze, the glance, the 
gleam, the flash, the bickering flame, the dashing 
wave, the gushing spring, the howling blast, the 
rattling storm, the pattering shower, the crimp 
earth, the mouldering tower, the twanging bow- 
string, the clanging arms, the clanking chains, 
the twinkling stars, the tinkling chords, the trick- 
ling drops, the twittering swallow, the cawing 
rook, the screeching owl ; and a thousand other 
words and epithets, wonderfully suited to the sense 
they imply. 

Among the select passages of poetry which we 
shall insert by way of illustration, the reader will 
find instances of all the different tropes and figures 
which the best authors have adopted in the variety 
of their poetical works, as well as of the apostrophe, 
abrupt transition, repetition, and prosopopoeia. 

In the mean time it will be necessary still fur- 
ther to analyze those principles which constitute 
the essence of poetical merit ; to display those de- 
lightful parterres that teem with the fairest flowers 
of imagination ; and distinguish between the gaudy 
offspring of a cold insipid fancy, and the glowing 
progeny, diffusing sweets, produced and invigo- 
rated by the sun of genius. 



510 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ESSAY XVI. 

Op all the implements of poetry, the metaphor 
is the most generally and successfully used, and 
indeed may be termed the Muse's caduceus, by 
the power of which she enchants all nature. The 
metaphor is a shorter simile, or rather a kind of 
magical coat, by which the same idea assumes a 
thousand different appearances. Thus the word 
-plough, which originally belongs to agriculture, 
being metaphorically used, represents the motion 
of a ship at sea, and the effects of old age upon the 
human countenance — 

— Plough' d the bosom of the deep — 
And time had plough' d his venerable front. 

Almost every verb, noun substantive, or term of 
art in any language, may be in this manner ap- 
plied to a variety of subjects with admirable effect; 
but the danger is in sovnng metaphors too thick 
so as to distract the imagination of the reader, and 
incur the imputation of deserting nature, in order 
to hunt after conceits. Every day produces poems 
of all kinds, so inflated with metaphor, that they 
may be compared to the gaudy bubbles blown up 
from a solution of soap. Longinus is of opinion, 
that a multitude of metaphors is never excusable, 
except in those cases when the passions are rous- 
ed, and like a winter torrent rush down impetu- 
ous, sweeping them with collective force along. 
He brings an instance of the following quotation 
from Demosthenes; "Men," says he, "profli- 
gates, miscreants, and flatterers, who having seve 



verage chastised by the sober deity," — a metaphor 
that signifies nothing more than " mixed or low- 
ered with water." Demetrius Phalereus justly 
observes, that though a judicious use of metaphors 
wonderfully raises, sublimes, and adorns oratory 
or elocution, yet they should seem to flow natural- 
ly from the subject ; and too great a redundancy of 
them inflates the discourse to a mere rhapsody. 
The same observation will hold in poetry ; and the 
more Uberal or sparing use of them will depend in 
a great measure on the nature of the subject. 

Passion itself is very figurative, and often bursts 
out into metaphors ; but in touching the pathos, 
the poet must be perfectly well acquainted with 
the emotions of the human soul, and carefully dis- 
tinguish between those metaphors which rise glow- 
ing from the heart, and those cold conceits which 
are engendered in the fancy. Should one of these 
last unfortunately intervene, it will be apt to de- 
stroy the whole effect of the most pathetical inci- 
dent or situation. Indeed it requires the most 
delicate taste, and a consummate knowledge of pro- 
priety, to employ metaphors in such a manner as 
to avoid what the ancients call the to 4w°'i *^® 
frigid, or false sublime. Instances of this kind 
were frequent even among the correct ancients. 
Sappho herself is blamed for using the hyperbole 
MvKOTifioi ^lovoQ, whiter than snow. Demetrius is 
so nice as to be disgusted at the simile of swift as 
the wind ; though, in speaking of a race-horse, we 
know from experience that this is not even an hy- 
perbole. He would have had more reason to censure 
that kind of metaphor which Aristotle styles x^t" 
m^iia.^, exhibiting things inanimate as endued with 



rally preyed upon the bowels of their country, at sense and reason ; such as that of the sharp-pointed 
length betrayed her liberty, first to Philip, and now arrow, eager to take wing among the crowd, 
ao-ain to Alexander; who, placing the chief felici- O' ^uQihyn xa9' oi/.i\ov 17rtVTiaBa.1y.mMvm. Not but 



ty of hfe in the indulgence of infamous lusts and 
appetites, overturned in the dust that freedom and 
independence which was the chief aim and end of 
all our worthy ancestors."* 

Aristotle and Theophrastus seem to think it is 
rather too bold and hazardous to use metaphors so 
freely, without interposing some mitigating phrase, 
such as " if I may be allowed the expression," or 
some equivalent excuse. At the same time Lon- 
ginus finds fault with Plato for hazarding some 
metaphors, which indeed appear to be equally af- 
fected and extravagant, when he says, " The go- 
vernment of a state should not resemble a bowl of 
hot fermenting wine, but a cool and moderate be- 



* AvBmttoi, (^iifft, fji.ia.fioi, x.a.1 axaa-TO^K., kui iioKaKi;, 

ltKpQlTma.crfAiVOt TdC icWTUV iKHa-TOl ■VATplS'U? TUV 

iXiuBifiiuv TTjioTrivaKOTH, TrpoTSf^ov <^t'ht7r7ra>, vt/v J" Awf- 
ttvJ/JO). TH yacrpt /xiTpouVTis ncii TO/; ctta^l^TOi; t»v 
iuSMiJ.oiia.v, T/)V cT' iKivbipta.v, nat to fx>iS'iva. i^^iv 
Si^s-TTOTHV a.uTCDV, a TCt; TTpiTipoK, 'EhM(nv opot TW ciycL- 
6«v xcrav »*« KcivoviS) etc. 



that in descriptive poetry this figure is often allow- 
ed and admired. The cruel sword, the ruthless 
dagger, the ruffian blast, are epithets which fre- 
quently occur. The faithful bosom of the earth, 
the joyous boughs, the trees that admire their im- 
ages reflected in the stream, and many other exam- 
ples of this kind, are found disseminated through 
the works of our best modern poets ; yet still they 
must be sheltered under the privilege of the poetica 
licentia ; and, expect in poetry, they would give 
offence. 

More chaste metaphors are freely used in all 
kinds of writing; more sparingly in history, and 
more abundantly in rhetoric : we have seen that 
Plato indulges in them even to excess. The ora- 
tions of Demosthenes are animated and even in- 
flamed with metaphors, some of them so bold as 
even to entail upon him the censure of the critics. 
Tots tm Xlu&cDVt <rm'p»Topt 'pnvri naB' vyam. — " Then 
I did not yield to Python the orator, when he over- 
flowed you with a tide of eloquence." Cicero is 
still more liberal in the use of them : he ransacks 



ESSAYS. 



su 



all nature, and pours forth a redundancy of figures, 
even with a lavish hand. Even the chaste Xeno- 
phon, who generally illustrates his subject by way 
of simile, sometimes ventures to produce an ex- 
pressive metaphor, such as, part of the phalanx 
Jluctuated in the march ; and indeed nothing can 
be more significant than this word i?iKiif/.nv(, to 
represent a body of men staggered, and on the 
point of giving way. Armstrong has used the 
word fluctuate with admirable efficacy, in his phi- 
losophical poem, entitled, The Art of Preserving 
Health. 

O ! when the growling winds contend, and all 
The sounding foiest fluctuates in the storm, 
To sink in warm repose, and hear the din 
Howl o'er the steady battlements 

The word fluctuate on this occasion not only 
exhibits an idea of struggling, but also echoes to 
the sense like the l<^ft^^]) <f« /Aa.x.ii of Homer; which, 
by the by, it is impossible to render into English, 
for the verb (^pia-a-o) signifies not only to stand erect 
like prickles, as a grove of lances, but also to make 
a noise like the crashing of armour, the hissing of 
javelins, and the splinters of spears. 

Over and above an excess of figures, a young 
author is apt to run into a confusion of mixed me- 
taphors, which leave the sense disjointed, and dis- 
tract the imagination : Shakspeare himself is often 
guilty of these irregularities. The soliloquy in 
Hamlet, which we have so often heard extolled in 
terms of admiration, is, in our opinion, a heap of 
absurdities, whether we consider the situation, the 
sentiment, the argumentation, or the poetry. Ham- 
let is informed by the Ghost, that his father was 
murdered, and therefore he is tempted to murder 
himself, even after he had promised to take ven- 
geance on the usurper, and expressed the utmost 
eagerness to achieve this enterprise. It does not 
appear that he had the least reason to wish for 
death ; but every motive which may be supposed 
to influence the mind of a young prince, concurred 
to render life desirable — revenge towards the usur- 
per ; love for the fair Ophelia ; and the ambition 
of reigning. Besides, when he had an opportu- 
nity of dying without being accessary to his own 
death ; when he had nothing to do but, in obe- 
dience to his uncle's command, to allow himself to 
be conveyed quietly to England, where he was 
sure of suffering death ; instead of amusing him- 
self with meditations on mortality, he very wrisely 
consulted the means of self-preservation, turned 
the tables upon his attendants, and returned to 
Denmark. But granting him to have been re- 
duced to the lowest state of despondence, surround- 
ed with nothing but horror and despair, sick of 
this life, and eager to tempt futurity, we shall see 
how far he argues like a philosopher. 

In order to support this general charge against 



an author so universally held in veneration, whose 
very errors have helped to sanctify his character 
among the multitude, we will descend to particu- 
lars, and analyze this famous soliloquy. 

Hamlet, having assumed the disguise of madness, 
as a cloak under which he might the more effec- 
tually revenge his father's death upon the murderer 
and usurper, appears alone upon the stage in a 
pensive and melancholy attitude, and communes 
with himself in these words : 

To be, or not to be, that is the question : — 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and awows of outrageous fortune j 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them 1 — To die, — to sleep,— 
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die ; — to sleep ; — 
To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we are shuffled off" this mortal coil. 

Must give us pause : There's the respect. 

That makes calamity of so long life : 

For wlio would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

Tlie oppressor's wTong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay. 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

Tliat patient merit of th' unworthy takes. 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin"! Who would fardels bear, 

To gnmt and sweat under a weary life ; 

But that the dread of something after death, — 

The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, — puzzles the will : 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment. 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. 

We have already observed, that there is not any 
apparent circumstance in the fate or situation of 
Hamlet, that should prompt him to harbour one 
thought of self-murder: and therefore these ex- 
pressions of despair imply an impropriety in point 
of character. But supposing his condition was 
truly desperate, and he saw no possibility of repose 
but in the uncertain harbour of death, let us see in 
what manner he argues on that subject. The 
question is, " To be, or not to be ; " to die by my 
own hand, or live and suffer the miseries of life. 
He proceeds to explain the alternative in these 
terms, " Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, 
or endure the frowns of fortune, or to take arms, 
and by opposing, end them." Here he deviates 
from his first proposition, and death is no longer 
the question. The only doubt is, whether he will 
stoop to misfortune, or exert his faculties in order 
to surmount it. This surely is the obvious mean 



512 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



ing, and indeed the only meaning that can be im- 
plied to these words, 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And by opposing, end them? 

He now drops this idea, and reverts to his reason- 
ing on death, in the course of which he owns him- 
self deterred from suicide by the thoughts of what 
may follow death ; 

^The dread of something after death, — 

The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 
No traveller returns. — 

This might be a good argument in a Heathen 
or Pagan, and such indeed Hamlet really was; but 
Shakspeare has already represented him as a good 
Catholic, who must have been acquainted with 
the truths of revealed reUgion, and says expressly 
in this very play, 

Had not the everlasting fix'd 

His canon 'gainst self-murder. 

Moreover, he had just been conversing with his 
father's spirit piping hot from purgatory, which 
we presume is not within the bourn of this world. 
The dread of what may happen after death, 
says he, 

Makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of. 

This declaration at least implies some knowledge 
of the other world, and expressly asserts, that there 
must be ills in that world, though what kind of ills 
they are, we do not knovsr. The argument, there- 
fore, may be reduced to this lemma : this world 
abounds with ills which I feel ; the other world 
abounds with ills, the nature of which I do not 
know; therefore, I will rather bear those ills I 
have, "than fly to others which I know not of:" 
a deduction amounting to a certainty, with respect 
to the only circumstance that could create a doubt, 
namely, whether in death he should rest from his 
misery ; and if he was certain there were evils in 
the next world, as well as in this, he had no room 
to reason at all about the matter. What alone 
could justify his thinking on this subject, would 
have been the hope of flying from the ills of this 
world, without encountering any others in the 
next. 

~ Nor is Hamlet more accurate in the following 
reflection : 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. 

A bad conscience will make us cowards ; but a 
good conscience will make us brave. It does not 
appear that any thing lay heavy on his conscience; 
and from the premises we can not help inferring, 
that conscience in this case was entirely out of the 



' question. Hamlet was deterred from suicide by a 
full conviction, that, in flying from one sea of 
troubles which he did know, he should fall into 
another which he did not know. 

His whole chain of reasoning, therefore, seems 
inconsistent and incongruous. "I am doubtful 
whether I should live, or do violence upon my own 
life : for I knew not whether it is more honourable 
to bear misfortune patiently, than to exert myself 
in opposing misfortune, and by opposing, end it." 
Let us throw it into the form of a syllogism, it will 
stand thus : " I am oppressed with ills ; I know 
not whether it is more honourable to bear those ills 
patiently, or to end them by taking arms against 
them : ergo, I am doubtful whether I should slay 
myself or live. To die, is no more than to sleep; 
and to say that by a sleep we end the heart-ache," 
etc. " 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd." 
Now to say it was of no consequence unless it had 
been true. " I am afraid of the dreams that may 
happen in that sleep of death ; and I choose rather 
to bear those ills I have in this life, than to fly to 
other ills in that undiscovered country, from whose 
bourn no traveller ever returns. I have ills that 
are almost insupportable in this life. I know not 
what is in the next, because it is an undiscovered 
country : ergo, I'd rather bear those ills I have, 
than fly to others which I know not of." Here 
the conclusion is by no means warranted by the 
premises. "I am sore afilicted in this life ; but I 
will rather bear the afl3ictions of this life, than 
plunge myself in the afl[lictions of another life: 
ergo, conscience makes cowards of us all." But 
this conclusion would justify the logician in say- 
ing, negatur consequens; for it is entirely de- 
tached both from the major and minor propo- 
sition. 

This soliloquy is not less exceptionable in the 
propriety of expression, than in the chain of argu- 
mentation. " To die — to sleep — no more," con- 
tains an ambiguity, which all the art of punctua- 
tion can not remove : for it may signify that " to 
die," is to sleep no more ; or the expression "no 
more," may be considered as an abrupt apostrophe 
in thinking, as if he meant to say " no more of that 
reflection." 

'Ay, there's the rub," is a vulgarism beneath 
the dignity of Hamlet's character, and the words 
that follow leave the sense imperfect: 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause. 

Not the dreams that might come, but the fear of 
what dreams might come, occasioned the pause or 
hesitation. Respect in the same Une may be al- 
lowed to pass for consideration : but 

The oppresfior's wrong, the proud man's contumely 



ESSAYS. 



U3 



according to the invariable acceptation of the words 
wrong and contumely, can signify nothing but 
the wrongs sustained by the oppressor, and the 
contumely or abuse thrown upon the proud man ; 
though it is plain that Shakspeare used them in a 
different sense : neither is the word spurn a sub- 
stantive, yet as such he has inserted it in these lines : 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes. 

If we consider the metaphors of the soliloquy, 
we shall find them jumbl^ together in a strange 
confusion. 

If the metaphors were reduced to painting, we 
should find it a very difficult task, if not altogether 
impracticable, to represent with any propriety out- 
rageous fortune using her slings and arrows, be- 
tween which indeed there is no sort of analogy in 
nature. JSTeither can any figure be more ridiculous- 
ly absurd than that of a man taking arms against 
a sea, exclusive of the incongruous medley of slings, 
arrows, and seas, justled within the compass of 
one reflection. What follows is a strange rhapsody 
of broken images of sleeping, dreaming, and shift- 
ing off a coil, which last conveys no idea that can 
be represented on canvass. A man may be ex- 
hibited shufHing off his garments or his chains : 
but how he should shuffle off a coil, which is an- 
other terra for noise and tumult, we cannot com- 
prehend. Then we have "long-lived calamity," 
and " time armed with whips and scorns;" and 
" patient merit spurned at by un worthiness ; " and 
" misery with a bare bodkin going to make his own 
quietus," which at best is but a mearj metaphor. 
These are followed by figures "sweating under 
fardels of burdens," "puzzled with doubts," "shak- 
ing with fears," and "flying from evils." Finally, 
we see " resolution sicklied o'er with pale thought," 
a conception like that of representing health by 
sickness- and a "current of pith turned awry so 
as to lose the name of action," which is both an 
error in fancy, and a solecism in sense. In a 
word, this soliloquy may be compared to the 
JEgri somnia, and the Tabula, cujus vance Jin- 
gentur species. 

But while we censure the chaos of broken, in- 
congruous metaphors, we ought also to caution the 
young poet against the opposite extreme of pursu- 
ing a metaphor, until the spirit is quite exhausted 
in a succession of cold conceits ; such as we see in 
the following letter, said to be sent by Tamerlane 
to the Turkish emperor Bajazet. " Where is the 
monarch that dares oppose our arms? Where is 
the potentate who doth not glory in being number- 
ed among our vassals'? As for thee, descended 
from a Turcoman mariner, since the vessel of thy 
unbounded ambition hath been wrecked in the 
gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper that thou 
shotildest furl the sails of thy temerity, and cast 
33 



the anchor of repentance in the port of sincerity 
and justice, which is the harbour of safety ^ lest 
the tempest of our vengeance make thee perish in 
the sea of that punishment thou hast deserved." 

But if these laboured conceits are ridiculous in 
poetry, they are still more inexcusable in prose : 
such as we find them frequently occur in Strada's 
Bellum Belgicum. Viv descender at a, prcetorid 
navi CcBsar; cumfcsda ilico exorta in portu tem- 
pestas; classem impetu disjecit, prcetoriam hav^it ; 
quasi non vecturam amplius Cccsarem- Ccesaris- 
que fortunam.. " Csesar had scarcely set his feet 
on shore, when a terrible tempest arising, shatter- 
ed the fleet even in the harbour, and sent to the 
bottom the praetorian ship, as if he resolved it 
should no longer carry Ccesar and his fortunes." 

Yet this is modest in comparison of the follow- 
ing flowers: Alii, pidsis e tormento catenis dis- 
cerpti sectique, dimidiato corpore pugnabanl sibi 
superstites, ac peremtce partis ultores. " Others, 
dissevered and cut in twain by chain-shot, fought 
with one-half of their bodies that remained, in re- 
venge of the other half that was slain." 

Homer, Horace, and even the chaste Virgil, is 
not free from conceits. The latter, speaking of a 
man's hand cut off in battle, says, 

Te decisa suiim, Larlde, dextera quaerit; 
Semianimesque micant digiti, ferrumque retractant : 

thus enduing the amputated hand with sense and 
volition. This, to be sure, is a violent figure, and 
hath been justly condemned by some accurate cri- 
tics : but we think they are too severe in extending 
the same censure to some other passages in the 
most admired authors. 

Virgil, in his sixth Eclogue, says, 

Omnia quae, Phoebo quondam meditante, beatus 
Audiit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros, 
lUe canit. 

Whate'er, when Phoebus bless'd the Arcadian plain 
Euiotas heard and taught his bays the strain. 
The senior sung — 

And Pope has copied the conceit in his Pastorals, 

Thames heard the numbers as he fiow'd along, 
And bade his willows learn the mourning song. 

Vida thus begins his first Eclogue, 

Dicite, vos musa;, etjuvenum memorate querelas 

Dicit"; : nam motas rpsas ad carmina cautes, 

Et requi sse suos perhibent vaga flumina cureus. 

Say, heavenly muse, their youthful frays rehearse , 
Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse ; 
Exulting rocks have own'd the power of song, 
And rivers listen'd as they fiow'd along. 

Racine adopts the same bold figure in his Phsedra: 
Le flot qui I'apportarecule epouvant6 : 
The wave that bore him, backwards shrunk appall'd. 



514 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Even Milton has indulged himself in the same 
license of expression — 

As when to them who sail 

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 

Mozainbic, ofi'at sea nonh-east winds blow 

Sabaean odour from the spicy shore 

Of Araby the blest; with such delay 

WeU pleased they slack their course, and many a league, 

Cheer'd with the grateful smeU, old ocean smiles. 



Shakspeare says, 

^I've seen 

Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds. 

And indeed more correct writers, both ancient 
and modern, abound with the same kind of figure, 
which is reconciled to propriety, and even invested 
with beauty, by the efficacy of the prosopopoeia, 
which personifies the object. Thus, when Virgil 
says Enipeus heard the sons of Apollo, he raises 
up, as by enchantment, the idea of a river god 
crovraed with sedges, his head raised above the 
stream, and in his countenance the expression of 
pleased attention. By the same magic we see, in 
the couplet quoted from Pope's Pastorals, old father 
Thames leaning upon his urn, and hstening to the 
poet's strain. 

Thus in the regions of poetry, all nature, even 
the passions and affections of the mind, may be 
personified into picturesque figures for the enter- 
tainment of the reader. Ocean smiles or frowns, 
as the sea is calm or tempestuous ; a Triton rules 
on every angry billow; every mountain has its 
Nymph ; every stream its Naiad ; every tree its 
Hamadryad ; and every art its Genius. "We can 
not therefore assent to those who censure Thomson 
as Ucentious for using the following figure : 

O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hiUs ! 
On which the power of cultivation lies, 
And joys to see the wonders of his toil. 

We can not conceive a more beautiful image 
than that of the genius of agriculture distinguished 
by the implements of his art, imbrowned with la- 
bour, glowing with health, crowned with a garland 
of foliage, flowers, and fruit, lying stretched at his 
ease on the brow of a gentle swelling hill, and con- 
templating with pleasure the happy effects of his 
own industry. 

Neither can we join issue against Shakspeare 
for this comparison, which hath likewise incurred 
the censure of the critics : 

The noble sister of Poplicola, 

The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
That's curdled by the frost from purest snow, 
And liangs on Dian's temple— 

This is no more than illustrating a quality of the 
mind, by comparing it with a sensible object. If 



there is no impropriety in saying such a man is 
true as steel, firm as a rock, inflexible as an oak, 
unsteady as the ocean ; or in describing a disposi- 
tion cold as ice, or fickle as the wind ; — and these 
expressions are justified by constant practice ; — we 
shall hazard an assertion, that the comparison of a 
chaste woman to an icicle is proper and picturesque, 
as it obtains only in the circumstances of cold and 
purity : but that the addition of its being curdled 
from the purest snow, and hanging on the temple 
of Diana, the patroness of virginity, heightens the 
whole into a most beautiful simile, that gives a very 
respectable and amiahle idea of the character in 
question. 

The simile is no more than an extended meta- 
phor, introduced to illustrate and beautify the sub- 
ject ; it ought to be apt, striking, properly pursued, 
and adorned with all the graces of poetical melody. 
But a simile of this kind ought never to proceed 
from the mouth of a person under any great agita- 
tion of spirit; such as a tragic character over- 
whelmed with grief, distracted by contending cares, 
or agonizing in the pangs of death. The language 
of passion will not admit simile, which is always 
the result of study and deliberation. We will not 
allow a hero the privilege of a dying swan, which 
is said to chant its approaching fate in the most 
melodious strain; and therefore nothing can be 
more ridiculously unnatural, than the representa- 
tion of a lover dying upon the stage with a laboured 
simile in his mouth. 

The orientals, whose language was extremely 
figurative, have been very careless in the choice of 
their similes; provided the resemblance obtained 
in one circumstance, they minded not whether they 
disagreed with the subject in every other respect. 
Many instances of this defect in congruity may be 
culled from the most sublime parts of Scripture. 

Homer has been blamed for the bad choice of his 
similes on some particular occasions. He com- 
pares Ajax to an ass in the Iliad, and Ulysses to a 
steak broiUng on the coals in the Odyssey. His 
admirers have endeavoured to excuse him, by re- 
minding us of the simplicity of the age in which he 
wrote ; but they have not been able to prove that 
any ideas of dignity or importance were, even in 
those days, afiixed to the character of an ass, or the 
quality of a beef-collop ; therefore, they were very 
improper illustrations for any situation, in which a 
hero ought to be represented. 

Virgil has degraded the wife of king Latinus, by 
comparing her, when she was actuated by the Fu- 
ry, to a top which the boys lash for diversion. 
This doubtless is a low image, though in other re- 
spects the comparison is not destitute of propriety; 
but he is much more justly censured for the follow- 
ing simile, which has no sort of reference to the 
subject. Speaking of Turnus, he says, 



ESSAYS. 



515 



Medio diix agmine Turnus 

Vertitur arma tenens, et toto vertice supra est. 
Ceu septem siirgens sedatis amnibus altus 
Per taciturn Ganges : aut piiigui flumine Nilus 
Cum refluit campis, et jam se condidit alvco. 

But Turnus, chief amidst the warrior train, 

In armour towers the tallest on the plain. 

The Ganges thus by seven rich streams supplied, 

A mighty mass devolves in silent pride : 

Thus Nilus pours from his prolific urn. 

When from the fields o'erflow'd his vagrant streams return. 

These no doubt are majestic images ; but they bear 
no sort of resemblance to sl|fcero gUttering in ar- 
mour at the head of his forces. 

Horace has been ridiculed by some shrewd critics 
for this comparison, which, however, we think is 
more defensible than the former. Addressing him- 
self to Munatius Plancus, he says : 

Albus ut obscm'o deterget nubila cffilo 
Saepe Notus, neque parturit imbres 

Perpetuos : sic tu sapiens flnire memento 
Tristitiam, vitaeque labores 

Molli, Plance, mero. 

As Notus often, when the welkin lowers, 

Sweeps oft" the clouds, nor teems perpetual showers. 

So let thy wisdom, free from anxious strife. 

In meBow wme dissolve the cares of life. Dunkin. 

The analogy, it must be confessed, is not very 
striking ; but nevertheless it is not altogether void 
of propriety. The poet reasons thus : as the south 
wind, though generally attended with rain, is often 
knowm to dispel the clouds, and render the weather 
serene ; so do you, though generally on the rack 
of thought, remember to relax sometimes, and drown 
your cares in wine. As the south wind is not al- 
ways moist, so you ought not always to be dry. 

A few instances of inaccuracy, or mediocrity, can 
never derogate from the superlative merit of Homer 
and Virgil, whose poems are the great magazines, 
replete with every species of beauty and magnifi- 
cence, particularly abounding with similes, which 
astonish, delight, and transport the reader. 

Every simile ought not only to be well adapted 
to the subject, but also to include every excellence 
of description, and to be coloured with the warmest 
tints of poetry. Nothing can be more happily hit 
off than the following in the Georgics, to which the 
poet compares Orpheus lamenting his lost Eurydice. 

Qualis populea mcerens Philomela sub umbra 
Amissos queritur foetus, quos durus arator 
Observans nido implumes detraxit; at ilia 
riet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen 
Integrat, et moestis late loca questibus implet. 

So Philomela, from th' umbrageous wood. 
In strains melodious mourns her tender brood, 
Snatch'd from the nest by some rude ploughman's hand, 
On some lone bough the warbler takes her stand ; 
The live-long night she mourns the cruel wrong, 
And hill and dale resound the plaintive song. 



Here we not only find the most scrupulous pro- 
priety, and the happiest choice, in comparing the 
Thracian bard to Philomel the poet of the grove ; 
but also the most beautiful description, containing 
a tine touch of the pathos, in which last particular 
indeed Virgil, in our opinion, excels all other poets, 
whether ancient or modern. 

One would imagine that nature had exhausted 
itself, in order to embellish the poems of Homer, 
Virgil, and Milton, with similes and metaphors. 
The first of these very often uses the comparison 
of the wind, the whirlwind, the hail, the torrent, to 
express the rapidity of his combatants ; but when 
he comes to describe the velocity of the immortal 
horses that drew the chariot of Juno, he raises 
his ideas to the subject, and, as Longinus ob- 
serves, measures every leap by the whole breadth 
of the horizon. 

0(7(rav S" mpoitS'i; avitfi tS'iv o<^^clK[ji.oi<!-iv 

Totro'ov iTTiBpce^KOvo't Sim v'-^yiyei; Ittttoi, 

For as a watchman from some rock on high 
O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye ; 
Through such a space of air with thundering sound 
At ev'ry leap th' immortal coursers bound. 

The celerity of this goddess seems to be a favourite 
idea with the poet ; for in another place he com- 
pares it to the thought of a traveller revolving in 
his mind the different places he had seen, and pass- 
ing through them in imagination more swift than 
the lightning flies from east to west. 

Homer's best similes have been copied by Vir- 
gil, and almost every succeeding poet, howsoever 
they may have varied in the manner of expression. 
In the third book of the Iliad, Menelaus seeing 
Paris, is compared to a hungry lion espying a hind 
or a goat : 

'fiO'Ti Xi06V S^^p f^iya.XCi>i7n (Tai/UdLTt KVfUTeiQ 

"Ev^atv » iXctcpov Kipaov, « a.ypm a.iya^ etc. 

So joys the lion, if a branching deer 
Or mountain goat his bulky prize appear; 
In vain the youths oppose, the mastilfs bay, 
The lordly savage rends the panting prey. 
Thus fond of vengeance with a furious bound 
In clanging arms he leaps upon the ground. 

The Mantuan bard, in the tenth book of the 
iEneid, applies the same simile to Mezentius, when 
he beholds Acron in the battle. 

Impastus stahula alta leo ceu Stepe peragrans 
(Suadet enim vesana fames) si forte fugacem 
Conspexlt capream, aut surgentemin cornuacervumj 
Gaudet hians immane, comasque arrexit, et hceret 
Visceribus super accumbens : lavit inrijroba teter 
Ora cruor. 

Then as a hungry lion, who beholds 

A gamesome goat who frisks about the folds, 



516 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



Or beamy stag that grazes on the plain ; 
He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane : 
He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws, 
The prey lies panting underneath his paws ; 
He fills his famish'd maw, his mouth runs o'er 
With unchew'd morsels, while he churns the gore. 
Dryden. 

The reader will perceive that Virgil has im- 
proved the simile in one particular, and in another 
fallen short of his original. The description of the 
lion shaking his mane, opening his hideous javFs 
distained with the blood of his prey, is great and 
picturesque ; but on the other hand, he has omit- 
ted the circumstance of devouring it without being 
intimidated, or restrained by the dogs and youths 
that surround him; a circumstance that adds 
greatly to our idea of his strength, intrepidity, and 
importance. 

ESSAY XVII. 

Op all the figures in poetry, that called the hy- 
perhole, is managed with the greatest difficulty. 
The h)rperbole is an exaggeration with which the 
muse is indulged for the better illustration of her 
subject, when she is warmed into enthusiasm. 
CLuintilian calls it an ornament of the bolder kind. 
Demetrius Phalereus is still more severe. He says 
the hyperbole is of all forms of speech the most 
frigid ; MuxierTO. (Ts H 'TmfiSoM 4 W' TctTOV Travrm ; 
but this must be understood with some grains of 
allowance. Poetry is animated by the passions ; 
and all the passions exaggerate. Passion itself is 
a magnifying medium. There are beautiful in- 
stances of the hyperbole in the Scripture, which a 
reader of sensibiUty can not read without being 
strongly affected. The difficulty lies in choosing 
such hyperboles as the subject will admit of; for, 
according to the definition of Theophrastus, the 
frigid in style is that which exceeds the expression 
suitable to the subject. The judgment does not 
revolt against Homer for representing the horses 
of Ericthonius running over the standing corn 
without breaking off the heads, because the whole 
is considered as a fable, and the north wind is re- 
presented as their sire ; but the imagination is a 
little startled, when Virgil, in imitation of this 
hyperbole, exhibits Camilla as flying over it with- 
out even touching the tops : 

Ilia vel intactae segetis per summa volaret 
Gramina 

This elegant author, we are afraid, has upon 
some other occasions degenerated into the frigid, 
in straining to improve upon his great master. 

Homer in the Odyssey, a work which Longinus 
does not scruple to charge with bearing the marks 
of old age, describes a storm in which all the four 
winds were concerned together. 



St/y S' 'Eufios Ti, HoTOi t' »7n<ri, Zti^vfot tt J'ug-Mi;, 
Ka.1 Bojows utQii»yinTyi{ [*iyct MfAst xvMvSaiv. 

We know that such a contention of contrary 
blasts could not possibly exist in nature ; for even 
in hurricanes the winds blow alternately from dif- 
ferent points of the compass. Nevertheless Vir- 
gil adopts the description, and adds to its extrava- 
gance. 

Incubuere mari, tptumque a sedibus imis 

Una Eurusque Notusque ruunt, creberque procellia 

Africus. j^ 

Here the winds not only blow together, but they 
turn the whole body of the ocean topsy-turvy. 

East, west, and south, engage with feious sweep, 
And from its lowest bed upturn the foaming deep. 

The north wind, however, is still more mischiev- 
ous: 

Stridens aquilone procella 

Velum adversa ferit, fluctusque ad sidera tollit. 

The sail then Boreas rends with hideous cry. 
And whirls the madd'ning billows to the sky. 

The motion of the sea between Scylla and 
Charybdis is still more magnified ; and ./Etna is 
exhibited as throwing out volumes of flame, which 
brush the stars.* Such expressions as these are 
not intended as a real representation of the thing 
specified ; they are designed to strike the reader's 
imagination; but they generally serve as marks 
of the author's sinking under his own ideas, who, 
apprehensive of injuring the greatness of his 
own conception, is hurried into excess and extra- 
vagance. 

Cluintilian allows the use of hyperbole, when 
words are wanting to express any thing in its just 
strength or due energy : then, he says, it is better 
to exceed in expression than fall short of the con- 
ception ; but he likewise observes, that there is no 
figure or form of speech so apt to run into fustian. 
Nee alia magis via in KHM^iKinv itur. 

If the chaste Virgil has thus trespassed upon 
poetical probability, what can we expect from 
Lucan but hyperboles even more ridiculously ex- 
travagant? He represents the winds in contest, 
the sea in suspense, doubting to which it shall give 
way. He affirms, that its motion would have been 
so violent as to produce a second deluge, had not 
Jupiter kept it under by the clouds ; and as to the 
ship during this dreadful uproar, the sails touch 
the clouds, while the keel strikes the ground. 



' Speaking of the first, he says, 

ToUimur in cffilum curvato gurgite, et iidem , 
Subducta, ad manes imos descendimus und^. 

Of the other, 

Attollitque globos fiammarum, et eidera Iambic 



ESSAYS. 



517 



Nubila tanguntur velis, et terra carina,. 

This image of dashing water at the stars, Sir 
Richard Blackmore has produced in colours truly 
ridiculous. Describing spouting whales in his 
Prince Arthur, he makes the following comparison : 

like some prodigious water-esngine made 

To play on heaven, if fire should heaven invade. 



The ode and satire admit of the boldest hy- 
perboles, such exaggerations suit the impetuous 
warmth of the one ; and in the other have a good 
effect in exposing folly, and exciting horror against 
vice. They may be likewise successfully used in 
comedy, for moving and managing the powers of 
ridicule. 



The great fault in all these instances is a devia- 
tion from propriet}', owing to^the erroneous judg 
ment of the writer, who, elMeavouring to capti- 
vate the admiration vnth novelty, very often shocks 
the understanding with extravagance. Of this na- 
ture is the whole description of the Cyclops, both 
in the Odyssey of Homer, and in the ^neid of 
Virgil. It must be owned, however, that the Latin 
poet, with all his merit, is more apt than his great 
original to dazzle us with false fire, and practise 
upon the imagination with gay conceits, that will 
not bear the critic's examination. There is not in 
any of Homer's works now subsisting such an 
example of the false sublime, as Virgil's descrip- 
tion of the thunderbolts forging under the ham- 
mers of the Cyclops. 

Tres imbris torti radios, tres nubis aquosse 
Addiderant, rutili tres ignis et alitis Austri. 

Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more, 
Of winged southern winds, and cloudy store. 
As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame. 

Dryden. 

This is altogether a fantastic piece of affecta- 
tion, of which we can form no sensible image, and 
serves to chill the fancy, rather than warm the 
admiration of a judging reader. 

Extravagant hyperbole is a weed that grows in 
great plenty through the works of our admired 
Shakspeare. In the following description, which 
hath been much celebrated, one sees he has an eye 
to Virgil's thunderbolts. 

O, then I see queen Mab hath been with you. 

She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 

On the fore-finger of an alderman, 

Drawn with a team of little atomies 

Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinner's legs; 

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; 

The collars, of the moonsMne's toai'ry beams, etc. 

Even in describing fantastic beings there is a pro- 
priety to be observed ; but surely nothing can be 
more revolting to common sense, than this num- 
bering af the moon-beams among the other imple- 
ments of queen Mab's harness, which, though ex- 
tremely slender and diminutive, are nevertheless 
objects of the touch, and may be conceived capa- 
ble of use. 



ESSAY XVIII. 



Verse is an harmonious arrangement of long 
and short syllables, adapted to different kinds of 
poetry, and owes its origin entirely to the measured 
cadence, or music, which was used when the first 
songs or hymns were recited. This music, divided 
into different parts, required a regular return of the 
same measure, and thus every strophe, antistro- 
■phe, and stanza, contained the same number of 
feet. To know what constituted the different kinds 
of rhythmical feet among the ancients, with respect 
to the number and quantity of their syllables, we 
have nothing to do but to consult those who have 
written on grammar and prosody ; it is the busi- 
ness of a schoolmaster, rather than the accomplish- 
ment of a man of taste. 

Various essays have been made in different 
countries to compare the characters of ancient and 
modern versification, and to point out the difference 
beyond any possibiHty of mistake. But they have 
made distinctions, where in fact there was no dif- 
ference, and left the criterion unobserved. They 
have transferred the name of rhyme to a regular 
repetition of the same sound at the end of the Hne, 
and set up this \'ile monotony as the characteristic 
of modern verse, in contradistinction to the feet of 
the ancients, which they pretend the poetry of mod- 
ern languages will not admit. 

Rhyme, from the Greek word Vu^y.o;, is nothing 
else but number, which was essential to the ancient, 
as well as to the modern versification. As to the 
jingle of similar sounds, though it was never used 
by the ancients in any regular return in the mid- 
dle, or at the end of the line, and was by no means 
deemed essential to the versification, yet they did 
not reject it as a blemish, where it occurred without 
the appearance of constraint. We meet with it 
often in the epithets of Homer : Apyvpsoio Bmto — 
Av«^ AvJ'pcov Aya.jui/1/.vm — almost the whole first ode 
of Anacreon is what we call rhyme. The follow- 
ing line of Virgil has been admired for the simili- 
tude of sound in the first two words. 

Ore .4rethusa tuo siculus confunditiu: undis. 

Rhythmus, or number, is certainly essential to 
verse, whether in the dead or living languages; 
and the real difference between the two is this : 
the number in ancient verse relates to the feet, and 
in modern poetry to the syllables ; for to assert that 



518 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



modem poetry has no feet, is a ridiculous ab- 
surdity. The feet that principally enter into the 
composition of Greek and Latin verses, are either 
of two or three syllables : those of two syllables are 
either both long, as the spondee ; or both short, as 
the pyrrhic ; or one short, and the other long, as 
the iambic ; or one long, and the other short, as the 
troche. Those of three syllables, are the dactyl, 
of one long and two short syllables ; the anapest, 
of two short and one long ; the tribachium, of three 
short ; and the molossus of three long. 

From the different combinations of these feet, 
restricted to certain numbers, the ancients formed 
their diff'erent kinds of verses, such as the hexa- 
meter or heroic distinguished by six feet dactyls 
and spondees, the fifth being always a dactyl, and 
the last a spondee ; e. g. 

12 3 4 5 6 

Principi-is obs-ta, se-ro medi-cina pa-ratur. 

The pentameter of five feet, dactyls and spondees, 
or of six, reckoning two caesuras. 

12 3 4 5 6 

Ciim mala per Ion-gas invalii-ere mo-ras. 

They had hkewise the iambic of three sorts, the 
dimeter, the trimeter, and the tetrameter, and all 
the different kinds of lyric verse specified in the 
odes of Sappho, Alcsus, Anacreon and Horace. 
Each of these was distinguished by the number, as 
well as by the species of their feet ; so that they 
were doubly restricted. Now all the feet of ,the 
ancient poetry are still found in the versification of 
living languages ; for as cadence was regulated by 
the ear, it was impossible for a man to write melo- 
dious verse, without naturally falling into the use 
of ancient feet, though perhaps he neither knows 
their measure, nor denomination. Thus Spenser, 
Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, and all our 
poets, abound with dactyls, spondees, trochees, 
anapests, etc. which they use indiscriminately in 
all kinds of composition, whether tragic, epic, pas- 
toral, or ode, having in this particular, greatly the 
advantage of the ancients, who were restricted to 
particular kinds of feet in particular kinds of verse. 
If we then are confined v^'ith the fetters of what is 
called rhyme, they were restricted to particular spe- 
cies of feet ; so that the advantages and disadvan- 
tages, are pretty equally balanced : but indeed the 
English are more free in this particular, than any 
other modern nation. They not only use blank 
verse in tragedy and the epic, but even in lyric 
poetry. Milton's translation of Horace's ode to 
Pyrrha is universally known and generally admir- 
ed, in our opinion much above its merit. There 
is an ode extant without rhyme addressed to Eve- 
ning, by the late Mr. Collins, much more beautiful ; 
and Mr. Vv^arton, with some others, has happily 
succeeded in divers occasional pieces, that are free 



of this restraint : hut the number in all of these 
depends upon the syllables, and not upon the feet, 
which are unlimited. 

It is generally supposed that the genius of the 
English language will not admit of Greek or Latin 
measure; but this, we apprehend, is a mistake 
owing to the prejudice of education. It is impos- 
sible that the same measure, composed of the same 
times, should have a good effect upon the ear in 
one language, and a bad effect in another. The 
truth is, we have beenpccustomed from our infancy 
to the numbers of English poetry, and the very 
sound and signification of the words dispose the 
ear to receive them in a certain manner ; so that 
its disappointment must be attended with a disa- 
greeable sensation. In imbibing the first rudi- 
ments of education, we acquire, as it were, another 
ear for the numbers of Greek and Latin poetry, 
and this being reserved entirel}' for the sounds and 
significations of the words that constitute those dead 
languages, will not easily accommodate itself to 
the sounds of our vernacular tongue, though con- 
veyed in the same time and measure. In a word, 
Latin and Greek have annexed to them the ideas 
of the ancient measure, from which they are not 
easily disjoined. But we will venture to say, this 
difficulty might be surmounted by an effort of at- 
tention and a little practice ; and in that case we 
should in time be as well pleased with English as 
with Latin hexameters. 

Sir Philip Sydney is said to have miscarried in 
his essays ; but his miscarriage was no more than 
that of failing in an attempt to introduce a new 
fashion. The failure was not owing to any defect 
or imperfection in the scheme, but to the want of 
taste, to the irresolution and ignorance of the pub- 
lic. Without all doubt the ancient measure, so 
different from that of modern poetry, must have 
appeared remarkably uncouth to people in general, 
who were ignorant of the classics ; and nothing 
but the countenance and perseverance of the learn- 
ed could reconcile them to the alteration. We 
have seen several late specimens of English hexa- 
meters and Sapphics, so happily composed, that 
by attaching them to the idea of ancient measure, 
we found them in all respects as melodious and 
agreeable to the ear as the works of Virgil and 
Anacreon or Horace. 

Though the number of syllables distinguishes 
the nature of the English verse from that of the 
Greek and Latin, it constitutes neither harmony, 
grace, nor expression. These must depend on the 
choice of words, the seat of the accent, the pause, 
and the cadence. The accent, or tone, is under- 
stood to be an elevation or sinking of the voice in 
reciting : the pause is a rest, that divides the verse 
into two parts, each of them called an hemistich. 
The pause and accent in English poetry vary oc- 
casionally, according to the meaning of the words ; 



ESSAYS. 



519 



so that the hemistich does not always consist of an 
equal number of syllables: and this variety is 
agreeable, as it prevents a dull repetition of regu- 
lar stops, like those in the French versification, 
every Une of which is divided by a pause exactly in 
the middle. The cadence comprehends that poeti- 
cal style which animates every line, that propriety 
which give strength and expression, that numero- 
sity which renders the verse smooth, flowing, and 
harmonious, that significancy which marks the 
passions, and in many cas^pakes the sound an 
echo to the sense. The ^eek and Latin lan- 
guages, in being copious and ductile, are suscepti- 
ble of a vast variety of cadences, which the living 
languages will not admit ; and of these a reader of 
any ear will judge for himself. 



ESSAY XIX, 

A SCHOOL, in the polite arts properly signifies 
that succession of artists, which has learned the 
principles of the art from some eminent master, 
either by hearing his lessons, or studying his works, 
and consequently who imitate his manner either 
through design or from habit. Musicians seem 
agreed in making only three principal schools in 
music ; namely, the school of Pergolese in Italy, of 
Lully in France, and of Handel in England ; 
though some are for making Rameau the founder 
of a new shoool, different from those of the for- 
mer, as he is the inventor of beauties peculiarly 
his own. 

Without all doubt, Pergolese' s music deserves 
the first rank ; though excelling neither in variety 
of movements, number of parts, nor unexpected 
flights, yet he is universally allowed to be the mu- 
sical Raphael of Italy. This great master's prin- 
cipal art consisted in knowing how to excite our 
passions by sounds, which seem frequently oppo- 
site to the passion they would express : by slow 
solemn sounds he is sometimes known to throw us 
into all the rage of battle ; and even by faster move- 
ments he excites melancholy in every heart that 
sounds are capable of affecting. This is a talent 
which seems born with the artist. We are unable 
to tell why such sounds affect us ; they seem no 
way imitative of the passion they would express, 
but operates upon us by an inexpressible sympa- 
thy : the original of which is as inscrutable as the 
secret springs of life itself. To this excellence he 
adds another, in which he is superior to every other 
artist of the profession, the happy transition from 
one passion to another. No dramatic poet better 
knows to prepare his incidents than he ; the audi- 
ence are pleased in those intervals of passion with 
the delicate, the simple harmony, if I may so ex- 
press it, in which the parts are all thrown into 



fugues, or often are barely unison. His melodies 
also, where no passion is expressed, give equal 
pleasure from this delicate simplicity ; and I need 
only instance that song in the Serva Padrona, 
which begins Lo conosco a quegV occelli, as one 
of the finest instances of excellence in the duo. 

The Italian artists in general have followed his 
manner, yet seem fond of embelUshing the delicate 
simplicity of the original. Their style in music 
seems somewhat to resemble that of Seneca in 
writing, where there are some beautiful starts of 
thought ; but the whole is filled with studied ele- 
gance and unaffecting affectation. 

Lully in France first attempted the improvement 
of their music, which in general resembled that of 
our old solemn chants in churches. It is worthy 
of remark, in general, that the music of every 
country is solemn in proportion as the inhabitants 
are merry ; or in other words, the merriest spright- 
liest nations are remarked for having the slowest 
music ; and those whose character it is to be melan- 
choly, are pleased with the most brisk and airy 
movements. Thus in France, Poland, Ireland, 
and Switzerland, the national music is slow, melan- 
choly, and solemn ; in Italy, England, Spain, and 
Germany, it is faster, proportionably as the people 
are grave. Lully only changed a bad manner, 
which he found, for a bad one of his own. His 
drowsy pieces are played still to the most sprightly 
audience that can be conceived ; and even though 
Rameau, who is at once a musician and philoso- 
pher, has shown, both by precept and example, 
what improvements French music may still admit 
of, )'et his countrymen seem little convinced by his 
reasonings : and the Pont-Neuf taste, as it is called, 
still prevails in their best performances. 

The English school was first planned by Purcel: 
he attempted to unite the Italian manner, that pre- 
vailed in his time, with the ancient Celtic carol 
and the Scotch ballad, which probably had also its 
origin in Italy; for some of the best Scotch bal- 
lads, " The Broom of Cowdenknows," for instance, 
are still ascribed to David Rizzio. But be that as 
it will, his manner was something peculiar to the 
English ; and he might have continued as head of 
the English school, had not his merits been en- 
tirely eclipsed by Handel. Handel, though origi- 
nally a German, yet adopted the English manner ; 
he had long laboured to please by Italian composi- 
tion, but without success ; and though his English 
oratorios are accounted inimitable, yet his Italian 
operas are fallen into oblivion. Pergolese excelled 
in passionate simplicity : Lully was remarkable for 
creating a new species of music, where all is ele- 
gant, but nothing passionate or sublime ; Handel's 
true characteristic is sublimity ; he has employed 
all the variety of sounds and parts in all his pieces; 
the perfomances of the rest may be pleasing, though 
executed by few performers ; his requires the fiill 



530 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



band. The attention is awakened, the soul is 
roused up at his pieces : but distinct passion is sel- 
dom expressed. In this particular he has seldom 
found success ; he has been obliged, in order to 
express passion, to imitate words by sounds, 
which, though it gives the pleasure which imitation 
always produces, yet it fails of exciting those last- 
ing affections which it is in the power of sounds 
to produce. In a word, no man ever understood 
harmony so well as he : but in melody he has been 
exceeded by several 



[The following Objections to the preceding Es- 
say having been addressed to Dr. Smollett 
(as Editor of the British Magazine, in which 
it first appeared); that gentleman, with equal 
candour and politeness, communicated the MS. 
to Da. Goldsmith, who returned his answers 
to the objector in the notes annexed. — Edit.] 

Permit me to object against some things ad- 
vanced in the paper on the subject of The Dif- 
ferent Schools op Music. The author of this 
article seems too hasty in degrading the harmoni- 
ous Purcel* from the head of the English school, 
to erect in his room a foreigner (Handel), who has 
not yet formed any school.t The gentleman, 
when he comes to communicate his thoughts upon 
the different schools of painting, may as well place 
Rubens at the head of the Enghsh painters, be- 
cause he left some monuments of his art in Eng- 



* Had the objector sa.\d melodious Purcel, it had testified at 
least a greater acquaintance with music, and Purcel's peculiar 
excellence. Purcel in melody is frequently great : his song 
made in his last sickness, caUed Rosy Bowers is a fine instance 
of this: but in harmony he is far short of the meanest of oiu: 
modern composers, his fullest harmonies being exceedingly 
Eimple. His Opera of Prince Arthur, the words of which 
were Dryden's, is reckoned his finest piece. But what is that 
in point of harmony, to what we every day hear from modern 
masters'! In short, with respect to genius, Purcel had a fine 
one ; he greatly improved an art but little known in England 
before bis time : for this he deserves our applause : but the pre- 
sent prevailing taste in music is very different from what he 
left it, and who was the improver since his time we shall see 
by and by. 

t Handel may be said as justly as any man, not Pergolese 
excepted, to have founded a new school of music. When he 
first came into England his music was entirely Italian : he 
composed for the Opera ; and though even then his pieces 
were liked, yet did they not meet with universal approbation. 
In those, he has too servilely imitated the modem vitiated 
Italian taste, by placing what foreigners call the point d'ar- 
gue too closely and injudiciously. But in his Oratorios he 
is perfectly aji original genius. In these, by steering between 
the manners of Italy and England, he has struck out new 
harmonies and formed a species of music different from all 
others. He has left some excellent and eminent scholars, 
particularly Worgan and Smith, who compose nearly in his 
manner; a manrer as diflercnt from Purcel's as from that of 
modem Italy, Coasequenily Handel may be placed at the 
head of the Engush school 



land.* He says, that Handel, though originally 
a German (as most certainly he was, and continued 
so to his last breath), yet adopted the English 
manner.t Yes, to be sure, just as much as Ru- 
bens the painter did. Your correspondent, in the 
course of his discoveries, tells us besides, that 
some of the best Scotch ballads, " The Broom of 
Cowdenknows," for instance, are still ascribed to 
David Rizzio.t This Rizzio must have been a 
most original genius, or have possessed extraordi- 
nary imitative powessn^ have come, so advanced 



The objector will not have Handel's school to be called an 
English school, because he was a German. Handel, in a 
great measure, found in England those essential difTerencea 
which characterize his music ; we have aheady shown that 
he had them not upon his aiTival. Had Rubens come over to 
England but moderately skilled in his art; had he learned here 
all his excellency in colomlng and correctness of designing ; 
had he left several scholars excellent in his manner behind 
him ; I should not scruple to call the school erected by him 
the English school of painting. Not the country in which a 
man is born, but his peculiar style either in painting cr in 
music — that constitutes him of this or that school. Thus 
Champagne, who painted m the mamier of the French school, 
is always placed among the painters of that school, though he 
was born in Flanders, and should consequently, by the object- 
or's rule, be placed among the Flemish painters. Kneller is 
placed in the German school, and Ostade in the Dutch, 
though born in the same city. Primatis, who may be truly 
said to have founded the Roman school, was born in Bologna ; 
though, if his country was to determine his school, he should 
have been placed in the Lombard. There might several 
other instances be produced ; but these, it is hoped, will be 
sufficient to prove, that Handel, though a German, may be 
placed at the head of the English school. 

I Handel was originally a Gferman ; but by a long continuance 
in England, he might have been looked upon as naturcdized to 
the country. I do not pretend to be a fine writer ; however, 
if the gentleman dislikes the expression (although he must be 
convinced it is a common one), I wish it were mended. 

I I said that they were ascribed to David Rizzio. That they 
are, the objector need only look into Mr. Oswald's Collection 
of Scotch tunes, and he will there find not only "The Broom 
of Cowdenknows, "but also "The Black Eagle," and several 
other of the best Scotch tunes, ascribed to him. Though this 
might be a suflicient answer, yet I must be permitted to go 
farther, to tell the objector the opinion of our best modern 
musicians in this particular. It is the opinion of the melo- 
dious Geminiani, that we have in the dominions of great 
Britain no original music except the Irish ; the Scotch and 
English being originally borrowed from the Italians. And 
that his opinion in this respect is just (for I would not be 
swayed merely by authorities,) it is very reasonable to sup- 
pose, first from the conformity between the Scotch and an- 
cient Italian music. They who compare the old French Vau- 
devilles, brought from Italy by Rinuccini, with those pieces 
ascribed to David Rizzio, who was pretty nearly contempora- 
ry with him, will find a strong resemblance, notwithstanding 
the opposite characters of the two nations which have pre- 
served those pieces. When I would have them compared, I 
mean I woidd have their bases compared, by which the simi- 
litude may be most exactly seen. Secondly, it is reasonable 
from the ancient music of the Scotch, wliich is still preserved 
in the Highlands, and which bears no resemblajice at all to 
the music of the low -country. The Higldand tunes are sung to 
Irish words, and flow entirely in the Irish manner. On the 
other hand, the Lowland music is always sung to English 
words. 



ESSAYS. 



531 



in life as he did, from Italy, and strike so far out 
of the common road of his own country's music. 
A mere fiddler,* a shallow coxcomb, a giddy, in 
solent, worthless fellow, to compose such pieces as 
nothing but genuine sensibility of mind, and an 
exquisite feeling of those passions which animate 
only the finest souls, could dictate ; and in a man- 
ner too so extravagantly distant from that to which 
he had all his life been accustomed ! — It is impos- 
sible. He might indeed have had presumption 
enough to add some HouTidgiB, to a few favourite 
airs, like a cobbler of old pl^s when he takes it 
upon him to mend Shakspeare. So far he might 
go ; but farther it is impossible for any one to be- 
lieve, that has but just ear enough to distinguish 
between the Italian and Scotch music, and is dis- 
posed to consider the subject with the least degree 
of attention. S. R. 

March 18, 1760. 



ESSAY XX. 

There can be perhaps no greater entertainment 
than to compare the rude Celtic simplicity with 
modern refinement. Books, however, seem inca- 
pable of furnishing the parallel; and to be ac- 
quainted with the ancient maimers of our own an- 
cestors, we should endeavour to look for their re- 
mains in those countries, which being in some 
measure retired from an intercourse with other na- 
tions, are still untinctured with foreign refinement, 
language, or breeding. 

The Irish will satisfy curiosity in this respect 
preferably to all other nations I have seen. They 
in several parts of that country still adhere to their 
ancient language, dress, furniture, and supersti- 
tions ; several customs exist among them, that still 
speak their original ; and in some respects Caesar's 
description of the ancient Britons is applicable to 
them. 

Their bards, in particular, are still held in great 
veneration among them ; those traditional heralds 
are invited to every funeral, in order to fill up the 
intervals of the bowl with their songs and harps. 
In these they rehearse the actions of the ancestors 
of the deceased, bewail the bondage of their coun- 
try under the English government, and generally 
conclude with advising the young men and maid- 



• Bavid Rizzio was neither a mere fiddler, nor a shallow 
coxcomb, nor a worthless fellow, nor a stranger hi Scotland. 
He had uideed been brought over from Piedmont, to be put 
at the head of a band of music, by King James V. one of the 
most elegant princes of his time, an exquisite judge of music, 
as well as of poetry, architecture, and all the fine arta Rizzio, 
at the time of his death, had been above twenty years in 
Scotland : he was secretary to the Queen, and at the same 
time an agent from the Pope ; so that he could not be so ob- 
scure as he has been represented. 



ens to make the best use of their time, for they 
will soon, for all their present bloom, be stretched 
under the table, Uke the dead body before them. 

Of all the bards this country ever produced, the 
last and the greatest was Carolan the Blind. 
He was at once a poet, a musician, a composer, 
and sung his own verses to his harp. The origi- 
nal natives never mention his name without rap- 
ture: both his poetry and music they have by 
heart ; and even some of the English themselves, 
who have been transplanted there, find his music 
extremely pleasing. A song begmning 

" O'Rom'ke's noble fare wiU ne'er be forgot," 

translated by Dean Swift, is of his composition ; 
which, though perhaps by this means the best 
known of his pieces, is yet by no means the most 
deserving. His songs in general may be compared 
to those of Pindar, as they have frequently the 
same flights of imagination ; and are composed (I 
do not say written, for he could not write) merely 
to flatter some man of fortune upon some excel- 
lence of the same kind. In these one man is 
praised for the excellence of his stable, as in Pin- 
dar, another for his hospitality, a third for the 
beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth for 
the antiquity of his family. Whenever any of 
the original natives of distinction were assem- 
bled at feasting or revelling, Carolan was generally 
there, where he was always ready with his harp 
to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature 
formed for his profession ; for as he was born Wind, 
so also he was possessed of a most astonishing 
memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, which 
gave his entertainers infinite satisfaction. Being 
once at the house of an Irish nobleman, where 
there was a musician present who was eminent in 
the profession, Carolan immediately challenged him 
to a trial of skill. To carry the jest forward, his 
Lordship persuaded the musician to accept the 
challenge, and he accordingly played over on his 
fiddle the fifth concerto of Vivaldi. Carolan, im- 
mediately taking his harp, played over the whole 
piece after him, without missing a note, though he 
never heard it before ; which produced some sur- 
prise : but their astonishment increased, when he 
assured them he could make a concerto in the 
same taste himself, which he instantly composed ; 
and that vrith such spirit and elegance, that it may 
compare (for we have it still) with the finest com- 
positions of Italy. 

His death was not more remarkable than his 
life. Homer was never more fond of a glass than 
he ; he would drink whole pints of usquebaugh, 
and, as he used to think, without any ill conse- 
quence. His intemperance, however, in this re- 
spect, at length brought on an incurable disor- 
der, and when just at the point of death, he called 
for a cup of his beloved liquor. Those who were 



532 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



standing round him, surprised at the demand, en- 
deavoured to persuade him to the contrary ; but he 
persisted, and, when the bowl was brought to him, 
attempted to drink, but could not ; wherefore, giv- 
ing away the bowl, he observed with a smile, that 
it would be hard if two such friends as he and the 
cup should part at least without kissing ; and then 
expired. 



ESSAY XXI. 

Of all men who form gay illusions of distant 
happiness, perhaps a poet is the most sanguine. 
Such is the ardour of his hopes, that they often are 
equal to actual enjoyment ; and he feels more in 
expectance than actual fruition. I have often re- 
garded a character of this kind with some degree 
of envy. A man possessed of such warm imagi- 
nation commands all nature, and arrogates posses- 
sions of which the owner has a blunter relish. 
While life continues, the alluring prospect lies be- 
fore him : he travels in the pursuit with confidence, 
and resigns it only with his last breath. 

It is this happy confidence which gives life its 
true relish, and keeps up our spirits amidst every 
distress and disappointment. How much less 
would be done, if a man knew how little he can 
do ! How wretched a creature would he be, if he 
saw the end as well as the beginning of his pro- 
jects ! He would have nothing left but to sit down 
in torpid despair, and exchange employment for 
actual calamity. 

I was led into this train of thinldng upon lately 
visiting* the beautiful gardens of the late Mr. 
Shenstone, who was himself a poet, and possessed 
of that warm imagination, which made him ever 
foremost in the pursuit of flying happiness. 
Could he but have foreseen the end of all his 
schemes, for whom he was improving, and what 
changes his designs were to undergo, he would 
have scarcely amused his innocent life with what 
for several years employed him in a most harmless 
manner, and abridged his scanty fortune. As the 
progress of this improvement is a true picture of 
sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up 
my imagination, which, while I walked pensively 
along, suggested the following reverie. 

As I was turning my back upon a beautiful 
piece of water enlivened with cascades and rock- 
work, and entering a dark walk by which ran a 
prattling brook, the Genius of the place appeared 
before me, but more resembling the God of Time, 
than him more peculiarly appointed to the care of 
gardens. Instead of shears he bore a scythe ; and 
he appeared rather with the implements of hus- 
bandly, than those of a modern gardener. Having 



1773. 



remembered this place in its pristine beauty, I 
could not help condoling with him on its present 
ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the many 
alterations which had been made, and all for the 
worse ; of the many shades which had been taken 
away, of the bowers that were destroyed by ne- 
glect, and the hedge-rows that were spoiled by clip- 
ping. The Genius with a sigh received my con- 
dolement, and assured me that he was equally a 
martyr to ignorance and taste, to refinement and 
rusticity. SeeinglHKesirous of knowing farther, 
he went on : ^f 

" You see, in the place before you, the paternal 
inheritance of a poet ; and, to a man content with 
little, fully sufficient for his subsistence: but a 
strong imagination and a long acquaintance with 
the rich are dangerous foes to contentment. Our 
poet, instead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved 
to prepare for its future enjoyment, and set about 
converting a place of profit into a scene of plea- 
sure. This he at first supposed could be accom- 
plished at a small expense ; and he was willing for 
a while to stint his income, to have an opportunity 
of displaying his taste. The improvement in this 
manner went forward ; one beauty attained led him 
to wish for some other ; but he still hoped that 
every emendation would be the last. It was now 
therefore found, that the improvement exceeded 
the subsidy, that the place was grown too large and 
too fine for the inhabitant. But that pride which 
was once exhibited could not retire ; the garden 
was made for the owner, and though it was be- 
come unfit for him he could not willingly resign it 
to another. Thus the first idea of its beauties con- 
tributing to the happiness of his life was found un- 
faithful ; so that, instead of looking within for sat- 
isfaction, he began to think of having recourse to 
the praises of those who came to visit his improve- 
ment. 

" In consequence of this hope, which now took 
possession of his mind, the gardens were opened 
to the visits of every stranger ; and the country 
flocked round to walk, to criticise, to admire, and 
to do mischief. He soon found, that the admirers 
of his taste left by no means such strong marks 
of their applause, as the envious did of their 
malignity. All the windows of his temples, and 
the walls of his retreats, were impressed with the 
characters of profaneness, ignorance, and obsceni- 
ty; his hedges were broken, his statues and urns 
defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was now 
therefore necessary to shut up the gardens once 
more, and to deprive the public of that happiness, 
which had before ceased to be his ovra. 

" In this situation the poet continued for a time 
in the character of a jealous lover, fond of the beau- 
ty he keeps, but unable to supply the extravagance 
of every demand. The garden by this time was 
completely grown and finished; the marks of art were 



ESSAYS. 



523 



covered up by the luxuriance of nature; the wind- 
ing walks were grown dark ; the brook assumed a 
natural sylvage ; and the rocks were covered with 
moss. Nothing now remained but to enjoy the 
beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, and 
his garden was obliged to be sold for the benefit 
of those who had contributed to its embellishment. 
" The beauties of the place had now for some 
time been celebrated as well in prose as in verse ; 
and all men of taste wishe(^)r so envied a spot, 
where every urn was mai^JBtvith the poet's pen- 
cil, and every walk awak^pd genius and medita- 
tion. The first purchaser was one Mr. True- 
penny, a button-maker, who was possessed of three 
thousand pounds, and was willing also to be pos- 
sessed of taste and genius. 

" As the poet's ideas were for the natural wild- 
ness of the landscape, the button-maker's were for 
the more regular productions of art. He conceiv- 
ed, perhaps, that as it is a beauty in a button to be 
of a regular pattern, so the same regularity ought 
to obtain in a landscape. Be this as it will, he em- 
ployed the shears to some purpose ; he clipped up 
the hedges, cut down the gloomy walks, made vis- 
tas upon the stables and hog-sties, and showed his 
friends that a man of taste should always be doing. 
"The next candidate for taste and genius was a 
captain of a ship, who bought the garden because 
the former possessor could find nothing more to 
mend ; but unfortunately he had taste too. His 
great passion lay in building, in making Chinese 
temples, and cage-work summer-houses. As the 
place before had an appearance of retirement, and 
inspired meditation, he gave it a more peopled air ; 
every turning presented a cottage, or ice-house, or 
a temple ; the improvement was converted into a 
little city, and it only wanted inhabitants to give it 
the air of a village in the East Indies. 

"In this manner, in less than ten years, the im- 
provement has gone through the hands of as many 
proprietors, who were all willing to have taste, and 
to show their taste too. As the place had received 
its best finishing from the hand of the first possessor, 
so every innovator only lent a hand to do mischief. 
Those parts which were obscure, have been en- 
lightened ; those walks which led naturally, have 
jeen twisted into serpentine windings. The colour 
af the flowers of the field is not more various than 
.he variety of tastes that have been employed here, 
and all in direct contradiction to the original aim 
of the first improver. Could the original possessor 
but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would. he 
look upon his favourite spot again ! He would 
scarcely recollect a Dryad or a Wood-nymph of his 
former acquaintance, and might perhaps find him- 
self as much a stranger in his own plantation as in 
the deserts of Siberia." 



ESSAY XXII. 

The theatre, like all other amusements, has its 
fashions and its prejudices; and when satiated with 
its excellence, mankind begin to mistake change 
for improvement. For some years tragedy was 
the reigning entertainment ; but of late it has en- 
tirely given way to comedy, and our best efforts 
are now exerted in these lighter kinds of composi- 
tion. The pompous train, the swelling phrase, 
and the unnatural rant, are displaced for that 
natural portrait of human folly and frailty, of 
which all are judges, because all have sat for the 
picture. 

But as in describing nature it is presented with 
a double face, either of mirth or sadness, our modern 
writers find themselves at a loss which chiefly to 
copy from; and it is now debated, whether the 
exhibition of human distress is likely to afford the 
mind more entertainment than that of human ab- 
surdity? 

Comedy is defined by Aristotle to be a picture 
of the frailties of the lower part of mankind, to dis- 
tinguish it from tragedy, which is an exhibition of 
the misfortunes of the great. When comedy there- 
fore ascends to produce the characters of princes or 
generals upon the stage, it is out of its walk, since 
low life and middle life are entirely its object. The 
principal question therefore is, whether in describ- 
ing low or middle life, an exhibition of its follies 
be not preferable to a detail of its calamities'? Or. 
in other words, which deserves the preference — the 
weeping sentimental comedy so much in fashion 
at present,* or the laughing and even low comedy, 
which seems to have been last exhibited by Van- 
brugh and Gibber? 

If we apply to authorities, all the great masters 
in the dramatic art have but one opinion. Their 
rule is, that as tragedy displays the calamities of 
the great, so comedy should excite our laughter, 
by ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lower 
part of mankind. Boileau, one of the best modern 
critics, asserts, that comedy will not admit of tragic 
distress : 

Le comique, ennemi des soupirs et des pleurs, 
N'admet point dans ses vei-s de tragiques douleurs. 

Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation 
in nature, as the distresses of the mean by no 
means affect us so strongly as the calamities of the 
great. When tragedy exhibits to us some great 
man fallen from his height, and struggling with 
want and adversity, we feel his situation in the 
same manner as we suppose he himself must feel, 
and our pity is increased in proportion to the height 



1773. 



524 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



fiwm which he fell. On the contraiy, we do not 
so strongly sympathize with one born in humbler 
circumstances, and encountering accidental dis- 
tress: so that while we melt for Behsarius, we 
scarcely give halfpence to the beggar who accosts 
us in the street. The one has our pity ; the other 
our contempt. Distress, therefore, is the proper 
object of tragedy, since the great excite our pity by 
their fall ; but not equally so of comedy, since the 
actors employed in it are originally so mean, that 
they sink but little by their fall. 

Since the first origin of the stage, tragedy and 
comedy have run in distinct channels, and never 
till of late encroached upon the provinces of each 
other. Terence, who seems to have made the 
nearest approaches, always judiciously stops short 
before he comes to the downright pathetic ; and yet 
he is even reproached by Ctesar for wanting the 
vis comica. All the other comic writers of anti- 
quity aim only at rendering folly or vice ridiculous, 
but never exalt their characters into buskined 
pomp, or make what Voltaire humorously calls a 
tradesman's tragedy. 

Yet, notwithstanding this weight of authority and 
the universal practice of former ages, a new species 
of dramatic composition has been introduced under 
the name oi sentiviental comedy, in which the vir- 
tues of private life are exhibited, rather than the 
vices exposed ; and the distresses rather than the 
faults of mankind make our interest in the piece. 
These comedies have had of late great success, per- 
haps from their novelty, and also from their flatter- 
ing every man in his favourite foible. In these 
plays almost all the characters are good, and ex- 
ceedingly generous ; they are lavish enough of their 
tin money on the stage ; and though they want 
humour, have abundance of sentiment and feeling. 
If they happen to have faults or foibles, the spec- 
tator is taught, not only to pardon, but to applaud 
them, in consideration of the goodness of their 
hearts ; so that folly, instead of being ridiculed, is 
commended, and the comedy aims at touching our 
passions without the power of being truly pathetic. 
In this manner we are likely to lose one great 
source of entertainment on the stage ; for while the 
comic poet is invading the province of the tragic 
muse, he leaves her lovely sister quite neglected. 
Of this, however, he is no way solicitous, as he 
measures his fame by his profits. 

But it will be said, that the theatre is formed to 
amuse mankind, and that it matters little, if this 
end be answered, by what means it is obtained. 
If mankind find dehght in weeping at comedy, it 
would be cruel to abridge them in that or any other 
innocent pleasure. If those pieces arc denied the 
name of comedies, yet call them by any other name, 



and if they are delightful, they are good. Their 
success, it will be said, is a mark of their merit, 
and it is only abridging our happiness to deny us 
an inlet to amusement. 

These objections, however, are rather specious 
than solid. It is true, that amusement is a great 
object of the theatre, and it will be allowed that 
these sentimental pieces do often amuse us ; but 
the question is, whether the true comedy would not 
amuse us more 1 The question is, whether a cha- 
racter supported thrfttlghout a piece, with its ridi- 
cule still attending, would not give us more delight 
than this species of bastard tragedy, which only is 
applauded because it is new 7 

A friend of mine, who was sitting unmoved at 
one of the sentimental pieces, was asked how he 
could be so indifTerenf? " Why, truly," says he, 
" as the hero is but a tradesman, it is indifferent to 
me whether he be turned out of his counting-house 
on Fish-street Hill, since he will stiU have enough 
left to open shop in St. Giles's." 

The other objection is as ill-grounded ; for though 
we should give these pieces another name, it will 
not mend their efficacy. It will continue a kind 
of mulish production, with all the defects of its op- 
posite parents, and marked with sterility. If we 
are permitted to make comedy weep, we have an 
equal right to make tragedy laugh, and to set down 
in blank verse the jests and repartees of all the at- 
tendants in a funeral procession. 

But there is one argument in favour of senti- 
mental comedy which will keep it on the stage in 
spite of all that can be said against it. It is of aU, 
others the most easily written. Those abilities 
that can hammer out a novel, are fuUy sufficient 
for the production of a sentimental comedy. It is 
only sufficient to raise the characters a little ; to 
deck out the hero with a riband, or give the heroine 
a title; then to put an insipid dialogue, without 
character or humour, into their mouths, give them 
mighty good hearts, very fine clothes, furnish a 
new set of scenes, make a pathetic scene or two, 
with a sprinkling of tender melancholy conversa- 
tion through the whole, and there is no doubt but 
all the ladies will cry, and all the gentlemen ap^^ 
plaud. 

Humour at present seems to be departing from 
the stage, and it will soon happen that our comic 
players will have nothing left for it but a fine coat 
and a song. It depends upon the audience whether 
they will actually drive those poor merry creatures 
from the stage, or sit at a play as gloomy as at the 
tabernacle. It is not easy to recover an art when 
once lost ; and it will be but a just punishment, 
that when, by our being too fastidious, we have 
banished humour from the stage, we should our- 
selves be deprived of the art of laughing. 



ESSAYS. 



525 



ESSAY XXIII. 

As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem 
willing to set young people together as soon as you 
can, I can not help lending my assistance to your 
endeavours, as I am greatly concerned in the at- 
tempt. You must know, sir, that I am landlady 
of one of the most noted inns on the road to Scot- 
land, and have seldom less than eight or ten couples 
a-week, who go down rapturous lovers, and return 
man and wife. J^H^ 

If there be in this worll^^greeable situation, 
it must be that in which a young couple find them- 
selves, when just let loose from confinement, and 
whirling off to the land of promise. When the 
post-chaise is driving off, and the blinds are drawn 
up, sure nothing can equal it. And yet, I do not 
know how, what with the fears of being pursued, 
or the wishes for greater happiness, not one of my 
customers but seems gloomy and out of temper. 
The gentlemen are all sulftai, and the ladies dis- 
contented. 

But if it be so going down, how is it with them 
coming back? Having beeii for a fortnight together, 
they are then mighty good company to be sure. It 
is then the young lady's indiscretion stares her in 
the face, and the gentleman himself finds that much 
is to be done before the money comes in. 

For my own part, sir, I was married in the 
usual way ; all my friends were at the wedding : I 
was conducted with great ceremony from the table 
to the bed ; and I do not find that it any ways di- 
minished my happiness with my husband, while, 
poor man ! he continued with me. For my part, 
I am entirely for doing things in the old family 
way; I hate your new-fashioned manners, and 
never loved an outlandish marriage in my life. 

As I have had numbers call at my house, you 
may be sure I was not idle in inquiring who they 
were, and how they did in the world after they left 
me. I can not say that I ever heard much good 
come of them ; and of a history of twenty-five that 
I noted down in my ledger, I do not know a single 
couple that would not have been full as happy if 
they had gone the plain way to work, and asked 
the consent of their parents. To convince you of 
it, I vfill mention the names of a few, and refer the 
rest to some fitter opportunity. 

Imprimis, Miss Jenny Hastings went down to 
Scotland vdth a tailor, who, to be sure, for a tailor, 
was a very agreeable sort of a man. But I do not 
know, he did not take proper measure of the young 
lady's disposition ; they quarrelled at my house on 
their return ; so she left him for a cornet of dra- 
goons, and he went back to his shop-board. 

Miss Rachel Runfort went off with a grenadier. 
They spent all their money going down ; so that 



he carried her down in a post-chaise, and coming 
back she helped to carry his knapsack. 

Miss Racket went down with her lover in their 
own phaeton ; but upon their return, being very 
fond of driving, she would be every now and then 
for holding the whip. This bred a dispute : and 
before they were a fortnight together, she felt that 
he could exercise the whip on somebody else be- 
sides the horses. 

Miss Meekly, though all comphance to the will 
of her lover, could never reconcile him to the change 
of his situation. It fjcems he married her suppos- 
ing she had a large fortune ; but being deceived in 
their expectations, they parted ; and they now 
keep separate garrets in Rosemary-lane. 

The next couple of whom I have any account, 
actually lived together in great harmony and un- 
cloying kindness for no less than a month ; but the 
lady who was a little in years, having parted with 
her fortune to her dearest life, he left her to make 
love to that better part of her which he valued more. 

The next pair consisted of an Irish fortune-hunt- 
er, and one of the prettiest modestest ladies that 
ever my eyes beheld. As he was a well-looking 
gentleman, all dressed in lace, and as she was very 
fond of him, I thought they were blessed for life. 
Yet I was quickly mistaken. The lady was no 
better than a common woman of the town, and he 
was no better than a sharper ; so they agreed upon 
a mutual divorce : he now dresses at the York 
Ball, and she is in keeping by the member for our 
borough to parliament. 

In this manner we see that all those marriages 
in which there is interest on the one side and diso- 
bedience on the other, are not likely to promise a 
large harvest of delights. If our fortune-hunting 
gentlemen would but speak out, the young lady, 
instead of a lover, would often find a sneaking 
rogue, that only wanted the lady's purse, and not 
her heart. For my ovnr part, I never saw any 
thing but design and falsehood in every one of 
them ; and my blood has boiled in my veins, when 
I saw a young fellow of twenty, kneeling at the feet 
of a twenty thousand pounder, professing his pas- 
sion, while he was taking aim at her money. I do 
not deny but there may be love in a Scotch mar- 
riage, but it is generally all on one side. 

Of all the sincere admirers I ever knew, a man 
of my acquaintance, who, however, did not run 
away with his mistress to Scotland, was the most 
so. An old exciseman of our town, who as you 
may guess, was not very rich, had a daughter, who, 
as you shall see, was not very handsome. It was 
the opinion of every body that this young woman 
would not soon be married, as she wanted two 
main articles, beauty and fortune. But for all this, 
a very well-looking man, that happened to be trav- 
elling those parts, came and asked the exciseman 



596 



GOLDSMITH'S WORKS. 



for his daughter in marriage. The exciseman 
•willing to deal openly by him, asked him if he had 
seen the girl; "for," says he, "she is hump- 
backed."— "Very well," cried the stranger, "that 
■will do for me."—" Ay," says the exciseman, " but 
my daughter is as brown as a berry."—" So much 
the better," cried the stranger, "such skins wear 
well."—" But she is bandy-legged," says the ex- 
ciseman. — " No matter," cries the other; " her pet- 
ticoats will hide that defect,"— "But then she is 
very poor, and wants an eye." — " Your description 
delights me," cries the stranger : "I have been 
looking out for one of her make ; for I keep an ex- 
hibition of wild beasts, and intend to show her off 
for a Chimpanzee." 



ESSAY XXIV. 

Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate in 
the praise of human nature. The dignity of man 
is a subject that has always been the favourite theme 
of humanity: they have declaimed with that osten- 
tation which usually accompanies such as are sure 
of having a partial audience ; they have obtained 
victories because there were none to oppose. Yet 
from all I have ever read or seen, men appear more 
apt to err by having too high, than by having too 
despicable an opinion of their nature ; and by at- 
tempting to exalt their original place in the creation, 
depress their real value in society. 

The most ignorant nations have always been 
found to think most highly of themselves. The 
Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned 
in their glory and preservation ; to have fought 
their battles, and inspired their teachers: their 
wizards are said to be familiar with heaven, and 
every hero has a guard of angels as well as men to 
attend him. When the Portuguese first came 
amongthe wretched inhabitants of the coast of Afri- 
ca, these savage nations readily allowed the strangers 
more skill in navigation and war ; yet still consid- 
ered them at best but as useful servants, brought to 
their coast, by their guardian serpent, to supply 
them with luxuries they could have lived without. 
Though they could grant the Portuguese more 
riches, they could never allow them to have such a 
king as their Tottimondelem, who wore a bracelet 
of shells round his neck, and whose legs were 
covered with ivory. 

In this manner examine a savage in the history 
of his country and predecessors, you ever find his 
warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages ac- 
quainted with more than possible knowledge ; hu- 
man nature is to him an unknown country ; he 
thinks it capable of great things because he is ig 
norant of its boundaries ; whatever can be con- 
ceived to be done, he allows to be possible, and 
whatever is possible he conjectures must have been 



done. He never measures the actions and powers 
of others by what himself is able to perform, nor 
makes a proper estimate of the greatness of his 
fellows by bringing it to the standard of his own 
incapacity. He is satisfied to be one of a country 
where mighty things have been ; and imagines the 
fancied power of others reflects a lustre on himself. 
Thus by degrees he loses the idea of his own in- 
significance in a confused notion of the extraordi- 
nary powers of humanity, and is willing to grant 
extraordinary gifts to every pretender, because un- 
acquainted with their claims. 

This is the reason why demi-gods and heroes 
have ever been erected in times or countries of ig- 
norance and barbarity: they addressed a people who 
had high opinions of human nature, because they 
were ignorant how far it could extend ; they ad- 
dressed a people who were willing to allow that 
men should be gods, because they were yet imper- 
fectly acquainted with God and with man. These 
impostors knew, that all men are naturally fond 
of seeing something vajy great made from the little 
materials of humanity ; that ignorant nations are 
not more proud of building a tower to reach heaven, 
or a pyramid to last for ages, than of raising up a 
demi-god of their own country and creation. The 
same pride that erects a colossus or a pyramid, in- 
stals a god or a hero : but though the adoring sav- 
age can raise his colossus to the clouds, he can ex- 
alt the hero not one inch above the standard of hu- 
manity : incapable, therefore, of exalting the idol, 
he debases himself, and falls prostrate before him. 

When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea 
of the dignity of his species, he and the gods be- 
come perfectly intimate; men are but angels, angels 
are but men ; nay, but servants that stand in wait- 
ing, to execute human commands. The Persians, 
for instance, thus address the prophet Hali : " I sa- 
lute thee, glorious Creator, of whom the sun is but 
the shadow. Masterpiece of the Lord of human 
creatures, Great Star of Justice and Religion. The 
sea is not rich and liberal, but by the gifts of thy 
munificent hands. The angel treasurer of Heaven 
reaps his harvest in the fertile gardens of the purity 
of thy nature. The ■primum, mobile would never 
dart the ball of the sun through the trunk of Hea- 
ven, were it not to serve the morning out of the 
extreme love she has for thee. The angel Gabriel, 
messenger of truth, every day kisses the groundsel 
of thy gate. Were there a place more exalted than 
the most high throne of God, I would affirm it to 
be thy place, O master of the faithful ! Gabriel, 
with all his art and knowledge, is but a mere scholar 
to thee." Thus, my friend, men think proper to 
treat angels ; but if indeed there be such an order 
of beings, with what a degree of satirical contempt 
must they listen to tlie songs of little mortals thus 
flattering each other! thus to see creatures, wiser 
indeed than the monkey, and more active than the 



ESSAYS. 



527 



oyster, claiming to themselves a mastery of Heaven! 
minims, the tenants of an atom, thus arrogating a 
partnership in the creation of universal nature ! 
surely Heaven is kind that launches no thunder at 
those guilty heads ; but it is kind, and regards their 
follies with pity, nor will destroy creatures that it 
loved into being. 

But whatever success this practice of making 
demi-gods might have been attended with in bar- 
barous nations, I do not know that any man became 
a god in a country where tl^^^abitants were re- 
fined. Such countries g^^^Hkhave too close an 
inspection into human weSBIStoihink it invest- 
ed with celestial power. They sometimes, indeed, 
admit the gods of strangers or of their ancestors, 
who had their existence in times of obscurity ; their 



weakness being forgotten, while nothing but their 
power and their miracles were remembered. The 
Chinese, for instance, never had a god of their own 
country; the idols which the vulgar worship at this 
day, were brought from the barbarous nations 
around them. The Roman emperors who pre- 
tended to divinity, were generally taught by a 
poniard that they were mortal; and Alexander, 
though he passed among barbarous countries for a 
real god, could never persuade his polite country- 
men into a similitude of thinking. The Lacede- 
monians shrewdly complied with his commands by 
the following sarcastic edict ; 

' E( Axs|civJ)ji3j SavKiTUi uvui Qto;, Qioc HtO). 



THE END. 

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